The Crown of Babel: It's A Wanderful Life

One of my first bouts of travel was to Managua, Nicaragua with my church on a "mission" to visit our sister church and help them physically develop their property. This trip was pivotal in my spiritual and social life - it created much torque on my linguistic boundaries. It was my first time in a country whose primary language was not my own, it was the first time worshiping in a church with a language it did not know, and it was the first experience I had being keenly and seemingly unconditionally loved by people who could not communicate their love in English, but rather by gesture, play, and Spanish attempts that they knew that I couldn't understand. Yet, even beyond the confusion, the silent observation, and even the prideful bitterness, I was loved by a community that did not need my speech and by a God who would speak any language in order to enter the discourse of my heart.

There in that place so foreign, I was honored. Our time spent in Nicaragua was over Christmas break, during which my 18th birthday passed. Sure, it was a "big deal" for me because I was becoming "legal" abroad, but for the Nicaraguans, this was a huge deal. I would become a Nicaraguan "man" that birthday in Managua. While our group leader Jarles could prepare me for a celebration by letting me know that for Nicaraguans it was also a "big deal," nothing prepared me for the congregational chorus of three different birthday songs (sung to me in church as I stood alone and in awe on stage, mind you), the army of hugs and kisses I received (at least one hug from every member of the congregation), bountiful knick-knack and sentimental gifts, and, the biggest honor of all - the duty of cutting the cake with one hefty knife. I was now a man.

I revisit this story now, four and half years later, realizing that it made complete sense to become a "man" in Nicaragua. Now knowing maybe ten more words of Spanish than I did then (bringing me to a grand total of about 27 or so), I remain the Nicaraguan man. How so? Well, I am a man whose feet feel comfortable on land that they've never tread. I count it an amazing and infinite blessing that I have had the gift of wandering. Whether it be by conversation or by spatial displacement, I love the sing-song snapping of a branch from an unfamiliar tree under my unsure feet while traversing a trail newly discovered. If wandering be our lot in life, why not enjoy it?

But, wandering has not always been our lot, according to the Biblical narrative. After the Fall, humankind, because of its selfishness, was cursed to work the land and labor in their procreation. Life was not without joy, however it did not come without great pain. Humankind could glory in its innovation, they thought. If it was to till the land, then from it, humankind would raise a tower to envy the glory of the heavens. The Tower of Babel it is called in the biblical text. The pinnacle of innovation, a center of creativity. We were of one tongue, and crafty as ever; we were excited to see what we could make for ourselves. Yet it seems humankind had learned nothing from the Curse, for the lot was not for man to overcome and glory in, but to transcend for the glory of God, the first and last King. As it was no throne for the one true King, the Tower's construction halted, its prideful makers scattered, and their language confused from unity to community - unity to be achieved by only through that which was held in common:  their God. Like a prism, God's purpose split the unity of humankind to become the colorful palette that it is today.

Furthermore, God placed the the Crown of Babel upon His beloved's head, the head that already bore the cursed mark of Cain, of mortality, of strife. Under the weight of this crown and confused by their new task, God scattered humanity and asked them again to glorify Him alone. So now, we wander. But also, we build. We've built time and again, seeking to scrape that sky whose height and expanse we will ever envy and never overcome, not with our rockets, our satellites, or wishes on falling stars. Rather than taking the Crown of Babel as a reminder of where we've come from, we reckon it a trophy of what we can become. However, the unity of humankind will never suffice unless, like the first prism, our community reunites these chromatic beams of diverse languages (and cultures), refracting back to unity the pure Light from whence our notion to centralize and catalyze once came.

So, what do we do with this wanderful life? We keep our communities from building towers and teach them to build tables. Diversity doesn't exist at a distance, that's called diaspora. Yet, it will only be with diversity that the original palette can be redeemed, only when all forms of light refract back through truth will He be glorified. Let us, then, come around the table and taste truth. And then, out of curiosity, come back for more. And then, out of love, come back to be fulfilled. And then, out of compassion, invite others. Be hospitable.

And then, in that day when all who are hungry have gathered around the table, the Crown of Babel the Host will remove from our heads and replace it with the Crown of Jerusalem - the mark of unity, of redemption, of love, of the shared Kingdom. We will be given crowns on that day not because we deserve them, and not because we will then become kings and queens, but because in the day our lust for power will have been laundered to be a yearning for glory, that we might glorify. Like stones set in the beauty of His crown, we'll gather around the throne of grace, no memory of Towers present, no striving, no strife, no longer a need to repent.

Fellow wanderers, we've much to do. First, let us stop stacking stories, and start constructing stools - all His people gotta sit somewhere. And once we've a notion of home, let us be hospitable. Go out, bearers of Babel, borne by the burden of yesteryear, our own sin, and in humility collect the broken sticks of trails travailed and make for yourself and your beloved neighbors a nest. Build honestly and work humbly and always invite passers-by inside. We've no time for fear, judgement, self-consciousness, pride, or immaturity, we've got invitations to deliver, the Feast has commenced.

That Degree: Useful Reasoning and Reasonable Uses

During the past four years of college life, I felt like I was caged in a too-expensive small-medium SUV with all the gadgets, a few of gizmos, and just a couple bozos. While Wheaton College is far from being just another clown-car college, regardless of the high-quality drives and highly trained drivers, I was getting all revved up, with nowhere to go. For four years I was filling up a tank that would just be spent on spinning wheels stuck on ice that reflected my face and my feelings well, but kept an irritating buffer between my eagerness and the road, the turf where my treads could actually find traction. But on campus, I felt like I was spewing gratuitous and possibly noxious clouds of less-than-filtered, but certainly muffled, exhaust to fill the atmosphere of almost-academia. (Note: I actually loved much of my college experience and appreciate all those that adventured with me through it, but for the sake of just analysis and synthesis of more firm theory, I find it useful to “heat things up” – hence the perhaps excess of cynical tone.)

So, what was the use? Or, as President of Wheaton College Dr. Phil Ryken asked during Commencement, “Was it worth it?” Well, I don’t know if it was in my process-not-product-oriented sculpture classes or my chances to analyze international policy and its slovenly pace, but I have learned that questions of “use,” “cost,” “worth,” and definitions therein should be paused within the dispassionate era of postmodernity as we reanalyze the mere existence of use, cost, worth, and definition and are persuaded into a position of relativity – a position that is not always purposeless or apathetic as some Christians may think, but certainly demands patience. After all, it was a theory of relativity that revolutionized our physical sciences to what we hold to today.

For instance, let us, in an instance of relativity, remetaphorize my college experience out of the expensive mid-sized SUV on to the green court of a tennis player. While most sane people don’t stand on the other end of a machine firing projectiles a few dozen miles per hour, this is where you might find a passionate tennis player “practicing,” as they do. Similar to the revving and immutable spinning of tires on a thick layer of ice, so is the repetitive motion of the tennis practitioner facing the only kind of machine-gun loaded with magazines of fluorescent balls. Even here one may see the devoted player dancing back and forth with their mechanized court partner, passionately practicing new plays, while another one of us sees an insane person with an oddly shaped, hollow weapon working up a sweat against a determined fate: exhaustion.

Interestingly, such a metaphor is particularly germane for those of us who find academia a sport. While it seems that one devoted to academia is more doomed to debt than the ball-court dancer, these past few years I’ve too writhed and borne similar sweats (of the mind) as I attempted to return the bullets of mechanical (maniacal?) syllabi demanding of me just a dozen more pages. Thus with such as paradox of pleasure and pain elicited from the academic court, what’s stopping us from rubber-stamping such fools as masochists? Well, it’s that cantankerous critic named Calling that entices the attendant follower into a brighter tomorrow that they cannot imagine, or so it promises.

I went to college because I was called to – or rather, because I lack true understanding what “calling” means and if there is even a biblical root for it – it was how I colored what I considered a calling: “Get wisdom, get understanding; do not forget my words or swerve from them. Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you.Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding” (Proverbs 4:5-7). I heeded her rebuke, and forsook the name of fortune for the beauty of wisdom (1:23). I pray now, in my indebted poverty, that she now will uplift me and embrace me in return.

Relativity aside, then, what’s the use? After all, were all looking for the grand reason behind things, from the unknown disease to the all-too-known familial loss, and alas, what’s the difference between “reason” and “use” beside their ontological placement: reason a revelation of truths for the development of a belief/bias, and use the turning cog in the great machine of logic, narrative, and purpose. Reason may ring a longer tone telling unto eternity, but use certainly can assuage our aural hunger for some symphonic simplification of the meaning of life for a time – depending on how much we paid for our tickets. And since I’m still paying for my tickets, I’ll just have to tell you the view from the balcony.

Getting a college degree was my way of hiring a tour guide through the city of life. A tourist in this world and a man who will soon return home, I need to know how best to spend my time here, for the sake of me, for the sake of the city, and for the glory of the Mayor. I could walk these streets day in and year out, seeing the sights, the great decorated facades, hearing the endearing overtones, and tasting the delectable sample-sized desserts. But I want to go inside. Welcomed or not, I want to make my home here. A hospitable guest, I want to know how best to serve my host. As any anthropologist or sociologist could tell you, such participant-observation takes time (and most times money); I just spent four years, sixteen years if you count all the pre-reqs, preparing for the fieldtrip of my life.

Educated, sheltered, clothed, fed, and loved, I am severely privileged. My tour guide was mostly white, spoke mostly English, and was mostly Christian. It was almost a lot of things, but was not nearly enough. Thank God that you’ve got the whole city before me for me explore with this privileged grace. I pray that I might do Good by Your name with it and in it.

From Grids to Grain: Finding Familiarity

Preface: It's been two years and I've all but abandoned my blog! Well, I'm headed off to Europe again, so I guess it's time to rekindle an old flame. I've decided to make a few changes to format and layout, more to come (so bear with me and forgive any excessive emails). For now, here's some kindling: thoughts from the home-front in Ellington. 

The city makes me come alive. Here at home in Ellington, Connecticut I am residing in something far less than most ideas of a “city”: very low development density, three or four chain stores to count (McDonald’s – the newbie, Subway, and oh, what’s the third…?), just as many stop lights, and sizeable front lawns. Today I took a walk to a nearby small coffee shop and bean roaster, Kevin’s Coffee. I have been there maybe twice but I had a hankering for a good cup of non-Strarbuck, non-Dunkin’ Joe and maybe some ambiance outside of the normal nest.

After quite the stroll – I’d tell you how many “blocks” but we don’t have those in these here parts – I arrived at packed little Kevin’s full of the local plumber’s gang, with a few state cops on the side. As I read the menu, I soon realized that the dreamed-of “for-here” latte was a dream left sleeping at the doorstep, so I ordered an “umm medium coffee,” which I had to repeat a couple times to be heard over the masculine din. There would be no Florence and the Machine in the background or Nintendo-referencing drink titles here. Just coffee, straight up. Emphasis on the straight. So I meandered to the one unoccupied table, set down my messenger bag (read: man-purse by many of these folk) and my hipster sunnies, took out my copy of The Pub, Wheaton’s independent literary magazine, and felt completely out of place. And yet so much at home.

My already-sloth-like reading speed was further impeded by conversations of hen’s eggs too small to be worth the work, overly detailed discussions of the local news, and then finally, “How can he read in all this – he must be on the same page!” Quickly I was brought into the discussion of my neighbors the plumber, the English teacher, and the café owner himself – who, by the way, knew everyone else who approached his counter; all but me, that is. The final half-hour of my time in Kevin’s Coffee continued with gulps of yocal paired with sips of Pub, a brew I hadn’t anticipated but got a bit of a buzz from. I left Kevin’s delighted.

I don’t live in the city. Ellington, from consensus with my parents, isn’t even suburbia. It’s just rural. In this rurality, many things look different, cafes, blocks, private properties, but they aren’t all that strange. Rather, I liken these differences to the “other” side of that knit or woven blanket you or your aunt may have in the living room. A nice, planned pattern decorates the front, perhaps a oversized cat with some poetic Proverb-derived saying. But on the back it’s just a bunch of colorful strings. Sort of a mess, really. One would never guess some familiar domestic totem graced the “front,” the side that is casually draped over the back of that too-comfy couch.

Ellington is sort of a mess compared to Chicago. Colors everywhere: curvy roads, inefficient front lawns, questionable side-walks, and too-short coffee menus. But, it’s made up of those same strands that organize the streets, schools, and service venues as Chicago: people. I love people. That’s why I love cities, I suppose. To a kid from Ellington, Connecticut, the city is this amazing network of rewoven strands of supply, demand, hen-keepers, and plumber guys. You just have to turn over the blanket. And, when you cannot turn over the blanket to see that comfortable familiar, you must then hold it close and feel the warmth that either side will give, for the heat comes from you anyway.

So, for those of you far from home, or at home and still feeling stranger than ever, draw near to the mess of strings that comprise the complexity that is your place. While you may feel unsoothed by the lack of a familiar pattern or by the frightening facets of your familiar, proximity may help you discover through presence and thus reveal a simplified space that looks more like your own.

A space possessed with some notion of hope becomes a place, and a place a garden for the growth of an identity that possesses and reproduces the very hope which uprooted unfamiliarity from our dispositions to begin with. Find place by finding hope. Find hope by denying difference. Deny Difference by engaging diversity. Only then can we turn over the blanket to find the product of the mess of emotions and identity complexes, the identity that was alas, planned from the start by the Great Weaver Himself.

And at the end of the day, when I'm whirling in wonder, looking for home, I turn myself over to Him.


C'est tout pour maintenant.