Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Fly From Heaven (If He's All You Say)

Toad the Wet Sprocket, Glen Phillips, Fly From Heaven, guitar, Dulcinea
Image via Neff Conner
by Sebastian Faust

The song "Fly From Heaven" from Toad the Wet Sprocket’s album Dulcinea is 20 years old now, which means, here at On Pop Theology, it’s just about ripe for us to discuss it as though it’s a contemporary piece, trending even now through the charts. Because that’s just the sort of thing we do. After all, we maintain only that we talk about pop culture; we make no claims as to which era’s pop culture.

It’s really quite a beautiful song with its warm, ringing guitars and soft, shimmering drums, all in that catchy, jangly, mid-90’s sort of way. But the soul of the song is its lyrics – well crafted, beautiful, pained, and haunting. And the bridge will unnerve you every time: “They took my brother; they ripped him from me to twist his words as they did his body.” There is anger there, like a hard, black stone, but it is utterly drowned and submerged in the heavy abyss of sadness and of loss.

When I first heard the song, those words hit me like a fist. I hadn’t worked out the meaning that first time through, but the plaintive cry and absolute heartbreak of the bridge had embedded itself within me. As I listened again, and put the pieces in place, it became all the more meaningful – a fictionalized account of someone watching the shifts in theology that turned a man into a god, a prophet into a messiah… for though it never speaks his name, this is a song about Jesus.

Scholars have long commented on the difference between Jesus as he was (the Historical Jesus) and Jesus as he is later depicted (the Christ of Faith). Since the portraits of Jesus in the gospels differ from one another, it becomes clear that each of the evangelists portrayed their subject in a way most useful for their individual messages. (This is not to say that the gospels are fabrications from whole cloth; the authors were constrained by the traditions about Jesus which already existed in the communities from which they wrote. Second, the entire “Quest for the Historical Jesus” would run right down a blind alley if its adherents believed there was nothing of Jesus’ historical words and actions to be found within the gospels.) The synoptic tradition shows the evidence that such changes were made in order to emphasize the evangelists’ individual takes on his import and significance; John and Paul do the same thing, in even more sweeping ways than do Matthew and Luke – theologizing writ large.

jesus christ, halo, stained glass, st. johns ashfield, church
Image via Alfred Handel
And it’s all very interesting for the sort of people who wear thick glasses and smoke pipes and speak of Levi-Strauss and yet aren’t talking about jeans. But Fly From Heaven isn’t a song that sits with those sorts of folk in their big leather chairs... it’s a song that takes such a premise and then asks, “What if?”

“What must it have been like,” goes the logic of the song, “to have been one of Jesus’ brothers (or sisters), to have grown up beside him, to have seen the life he led, heard the message he proclaimed, and witnessed the death that he died? What must it have been like, after all that, to hear people talking about your brother with terms he never applied to himself?

“What must it have been like to hear that a man named Paul was travelling about, claiming that your brother appeared to him in a vision, and tasked Paul with proclaiming a message among whose chief tenets was that your brother was actually the pre-existing agent of Creation and Son of God?"

Well, it would have been something like this:

Paul is making me nervous; 
Paul is making me scared. 
Into this room he swaggers, 
Like he’s God’s own messenger.

One of Jesus’ siblings, let’s call her Rachel, begins with her feeling of unease regarding Paul of Tarsus. Before she even comes to Paul’s message, there is his self-presentation that raises our narrator’s hackles. Paul bursts onto the scene with bluster and with preening self-importance.

When the apostles had come together to replace Judas, they chose only from among those who had travelled long with Jesus, who had been privy to his teaching. And though there were two men they considered well qualified, they chose only one in order that they might continue as The Twelve. But now, Paul saunters in and claims that he is the Thirteenth Apostle, summoned by a Jesus whom he’d never known in life, but who appeared to him in the sky. He brags about a special mission outside the purview of the Twelve – Paul, the Apostle to the Gentiles.

paul, saint, bible, painting, el greco
Image via El Greco
Oh, he wraps his arrogance in a cloak of humility. “I am the least of the apostles, unfit even to be called such,” he says (1 Cor. 15:9). But when he speaks of them, you can hear his derision, referring to them as “the so-called pillars [of the church]” (Galatians 2:9).

Rachel sees Paul as he visits Jerusalem, and the first thing she can think is how arrogant this man seems, and therefore, how dangerous.

Changed the name of my brother;
Changed the things that he said.
Says that he speaks to him,
But he never even knew the man.
(I’d give my life for him.)

There is a sense of deep sorrow and loss as the memory of Rachel’s brother has become public currency, appropriated by a man who never knew Jesus in the flesh. Her brother’s name has been altered, the Greek word Christ now added on almost like a surname. Her brother’s message has been changed – no longer a renewal of the Kingdom of Israel, it has taken on cosmic proportions and become a message for Gentiles, a message about powers and preexistence and a proclamation built around the brutal crucifixion that killed him.

And if Paul boasts about his loyalty to Jesus, Rachel asks how much deeper her own loyalty goes. She grew up with him; she loved him deeply; she would give her own life if it could only bring him back.

Like water through my hands
You’d give him any ending
But if he’s all you say
Would he fly from heaven
Into this world again?

Rachel finds that it is impossible to keep the memory and the message of her brother from being taken over by his disciples, and used to further their own ends. It is as impossible as reaching into the stream and taking hold of water; it’s slippery stuff that eludes the grasp.

Instead, Paul and the others have given a different ending to the story. There is talk of resurrection, talk of appearance, talk of ascension. But Rachel was witness to none of it, and she is skeptical – in appearing to those who loved him, would not Jesus have come also to her? Would he not have made himself known? Yet she has had no such vision, no such experience, and can only watch on incredulously as his disciples make the claim that Jesus rose from death, and later, up into the skies, exalted to the right hand of God. 
Jesus, nativity, portugal, gilmonde, nascimento
Image via Joseolgon

Take whatever you’re needing;
Take whatever you can.
We are broken from within.
Run to another land.

Rachel has heard in the words of Paul echoes of the message her brother had spoken. Paul has mined the words of Jesus for anything he can use to craft his unique gospel - taken up anything he can make fit into his message that all humanity is broken inside and stands guilty before the judge. And she taunts Paul here – saying that he has run away to distant countries. Rachel thinks to herself, “Had he stayed nearer to Jerusalem, where people like me had known Jesus far more intimately than Paul ever did, his message would fall to pieces, crashing against our collective memory.”

Like water through my hands,
Or is it just beginning?
But if he’s all you say,
Would he fly from heaven
To this world again?

The chorus here is much the same as before, and yet, the second line has changed. Rather than, “You’d give him any ending,” Rachel asks, “Or, is it just beginning?” There’s a note here of something else, something more than the inability to believe Paul and the Apostles’ message of resurrection. In this recurrence of the chorus, I dare say there is a true questioning, a longing to believe. Rachel aches for her brother, and would welcome proof that his death was not the end of things. And the final clause takes on almost an English Renaissance meaning, something you’d find in Shakespeare: “O Petrarchus, would that he would fly from heaven, again into this earthly world!”

They took my brother;
They ripped him from me,
To twist his words
As they did his body.

But her longing will not be given consummation. Instead, the sorrow comes crashing in, hollowing out her heart. Rachel grieves over the double handing-over of her brother, first to the Romans to be mocked and crucified. And then again, into the hands of his followers, to have his words twisted until they fit the Apostles’ message.

jesus christ, holy, painting, halo, blessing
Image via Jordon Cooper
Deny his family;
Deny his beauty,
To lay him down at
The feet of those he couldn’t save.

With the first line, perhaps Rachel has in mind the doctrine that Jesus had no siblings, when there she stands. Or perhaps she is referring to the very difference between her own experience of Jesus and that of Paul, who comes and denies her reality, replacing it with his own vision of the risen man. In the very same way, she laments that Jesus’ beauty has been denied, for Jesus “the man” wasn’t good enough or beautiful enough for the Apostles’ message; to make him worthy, he must now be Jesus “the god.”

And as Paul carries the message of the crucified Christ deep into the Empire of Gentiles, as he gives Jesus over to them, Rachel feels that the apostle is proclaiming to them a gospel that cannot save them. Her brother, who preached God’s renewal of Israel, is instead being propped up as the salvation for outsiders.

Will it be the end?
Or is he still ascending?
But if he’s all you say
Would he fly from heaven
Into this world again?

In the end, the disconnect is too great for our Rachel. Her final iteration of the chorus finds her mocking the message of upstart Paul. “Is he still ascending?” she asks, as though imagining this risen Lord rising up through the clouds and out, out, forever and ever, as he traverses the great chasm between earth and heaven. She wanted to believe, but she has seen how the Jesus she knew has been transformed into a Jesus she cannot recognize. And in the face of that, how can she believe any part of the message of Paul? How can she trust the ones who would twist her brother’s words as the Romans did his flesh?

But if he’s all you say, would he fly from heaven into this world again?


Sebastian Faust is an ante-orthodox thinker and writer, self-styled canary in the coal mine of pop culture. He paints with light, builds castles in the air, and lives a life rather ordinary in Nashville, Tennessee. He holds the position of Dauphin at On Pop Theology. You can’t follow Sebastian on Twitter because he doesn’t understand technology, but he appreciates hand-written notes sent by post or well-mannered carrier pigeon. 

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Friday, December 27, 2013

Uproar Around Celebrity's Opinion Allows Nation to Have Productive, Nuanced Conversation About Serious Issues

Image via Jeffrey Smith
by Ben Howard

As the nation gathered for their respective family Christmas celebrations this week, conversations across the country turned to the outspoken comments of a reality television star. Though various family members inevitably took divergent views regarding this celebrity and his opinions, the nation was unanimous in its gratitude to the reality star for facilitating such rational, healthy conversation about a particularly thorny issue.

“Everyone was able to express their thoughts and beliefs maturely and openly,” said Milwaukee resident Ed Flowers, 56. “Just a few weeks ago, I was worried that the Christmas table would be free of nuanced discussions about difficult issues involving politics, religion, race, and sexual orientation, but thankfully a guy with a beard intervened so we could all share our views with each other.”

Sources report that the sheer outlandishness of the comments made by this reality star along with the continued coverage of the situation from both regular media outlets and through social media venues such as Facebook and Twitter, allowed the nation to take a good long look at the way it had been conducting itself at previous family gatherings.

“In the past when I’d gone to visit my family, I would try to hide my opinions and change the subject whenever the topic turned to something touchy,” recalled Julie Harmon, 27, the token liberal member of her conservative Macon, Georgia-based family. “But thankfully this year, I was able to talk about all of my political opinions with my relatives who disagree with me passionately.”

When asked if the constant conversation about controversial political topics detracted from the festive atmosphere, or whether the time would have been better spent strengthening familial bonds, the nation cocked its head to the side, narrowed its eyes, and said, “I don’t understand.”

Ed Flowers, for one, is looking forward to the next round. “I can’t wait for next year, I’m hoping a football player says something about Israel, or maybe a talk show host will talk about income inequality. It’ll be exciting, I’m sure.” 

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87. 

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Thursday, December 12, 2013

The World Needs More Unironic Glitter Glue (Or, I Can't Help Loving Christmas)

Image by Currier & Ives

by Lyndsey Graves 

I can’t help loving Christmas.

Sometimes I think it’s not very cool to love Christmas. Lots of people like to run around reminding everyone that it’s a pagan holiday (and therefore, somehow, utterly godless); some people have an understandable aversion to the commercialism of the season, which taints their enjoyment in the whole thing; and other people seem to relish cultivating a Scrooge-y, Grinch-y Scrinchiness, simply for the sake of being contrary. But I am one of those people who just believes in Christmas spirit.

I don’t know exactly why. I’m usually a pretty suspicious, critical person; I spent Thanksgiving weekend in equal parts watching football and analyzing misogyny in football TV commercials. But I am 100% bought into Christmas time, Christmas cookies, Christmas gifts, tinsel, lights, and praying for snow. 

This isn’t because I am immune to the frustrating parts of the season. I’m not as busy as some  - no parties to host, no kids in pageants, no church services to organize like my seminary pastor-friends. Further, I also happen to like my family and don’t mind driving long distances. Yet, December for me is and always will be fraught with finals frenzy, and as a student I always pick up extra work hours in order to afford a few gifts. I’m not just making paper snowflakes and singing Alvin and the Chipmunks all month.
Image by Susan Smith

So what do I mean by “Christmas spirit”? If there’s something beyond the shopping and rushing and Pinteresting, something warm and human and divine – what is that something supposed to be?

I certainly can’t say there’s anything objectively special about December 25th, unless it’s that, growing up in Georgia, praying for snow teaches you stubborn hope for things as distant and unlikely as the Advent of the Messiah. Maybe the dark of winter is, after all, a good time for an unlikely-bright celebration of such an unlooked-for king. And yes, that story itself has much to do with what I love about Christmas, but you’ll forgive me if I am a bit more enchanted by the donkeys and magic stars and cousins leaping in wombs than by the incarnation. I’m a theology student and “incarnation” is the only word any of us knows anymore. 

My Christmas just isn’t going to be hyper-seriously-spiritual this year; after term papers on theological concepts and obligations of all kinds, I’m gonna need down-to-earth sugar sprinkles and a Linus-reciting-Luke level of heady theological engagement.

Image by gravity_grave
Maybe “Christmas spirit” just means to me that I love seeing everyone try just a bit harder, approach the world with a little more openness and love. Just because we can – and, when we remember, because God is with us – we try to make a day more special for each other. We remember to surround ourselves with music and to feed each other real food. We let Christ’s birth into humanity call us back to our own humanity. If we’re lucky, we even get to take actual time off work to actually be with our families. 

The world needs more un-ironic glitter glue. As long as my Christmas still has those moments beyond the money-spending, pine-needle-sweeping, and Scotch tape emergencies, I’ll still believe in the magic of the whole thing.

Lyndsey lives in Boston, MA where she is pursuing her Master's in Theological Studies at Boston University. She enjoys Community, Mad Men and Beauty and the Beast and her spirit animal is a sloth. She would like to know if this is some kind of interactive theater art piece. You can follow her on Twitter @lyndseygraves and you can find more of her writing at her blog To Be Honest.
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Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Finding Holiness in the Pigskin

Cleveland, Browns, NFL, football, huddleby Adam Metz

If I close my eyes I can still smell the roast in the oven. Grandpa had one special meal that he made for our family on holidays - a Midwestern recipe handed down through the Great Depression: one arm roast, one loaf of bread, one medium-sized onion, one egg, salt and pepper to taste, and the rest of the pan filled with potatoes. My grandmother fell victim to cancer long before I took a breath, so instead we all grew up on Grandpa's cooking - at least on special occasions. We just called it Grandpa's roast and dressing.

For our family, Grandpa's roast and dressing was a sacred meal and the corresponding family time was a sacred gathering. Memories of bygone civic holidays and Thanksgiving and Christmas continue to stimulate the olfactory nostalgia of the roast in the oven. We would fill our plates and with our first bite, each of us would let Grandpa know how good it was. And it was always good.

More times than not, the sacred gathering commenced at 1:00 on Sunday afternoons. If there was a holy time in our family it was 1:00 on Sundays . . . after church. The secret ingredient to Grandpa's roast and dressing wasn't the onion or the egg; I think it was the orange helmets and the brown jerseys on his television. For our family, autumn Sundays were holidays because they were football Sundays.

My Grandpa instilled in me a love for football. He never played. He never coached. Far removed from the violent and aggressive nature of football, Grandpa was the gentlest of men. But he loved football, and more than football itself, he loved the Cleveland Browns - a love that he has bequeathed to me.

Cleveland, Browns, football, fans, stadium, family, NFLI learned to love the Browns so much that when I moved away from Ohio, people assumed I grew up in Cleveland. Cleveland was over a hundred miles away from Defiance, but for three hours each week our house might as well have stood on the shores of Lake Erie. We cheered for the Buckeyes, we didn't hate the Lions or the Colts, but there was no mistaking that we were a Browns family. Through and through.

That's what made January 17, 1988 so hard. Maybe it was because we failed to partake of the sacred meal on that fateful Sunday afternoon. Maybe it was because we felt that devastation and misery could never befall us two years in a row. But whatever the reason, on that day over 25 years ago, the football gods decided to urinate on the city of Cleveland and on Grandpa's house in Defiance.

The memories of an eight-year-old, 25 years removed, are far from reliable, but whenever I do remember that day it was always dark. Through the darkness I remember that we recorded the game on our VCR so that we could relive the big victory over and over again. I remember that the Browns were playing the Denver Broncos in the AFC Championship game for the second consecutive year. I remember that if the Browns won, they were finally going to go to play in their first Super Bowl. I remember that John Elway had devastated us the year prior with what NFL lore has termed The Drive. I remember thinking that it was going to be different this year, that this was our year. 

I know that with 1:12 remaining on the clock in the fourth quarter, the Browns were behind by a touchdown but had the ball at Denver's eight-yard-line.

I know that Bernie Kosar handed the ball off to Earnest Byner.

I know he got hit hard by Broncos linebacker Jeremiah Castille at the two-yard-line.

Earnest Byner, 1988, The Fumble, Cleveland, Browns, NFL, playoffs, Jeremiah Castille, Denver BroncosI know Byner fumbled the football six feet short of scoring a game-tying touchdown.

I know that the Broncos recovered the fumble.

I know that Grandpa pushed "Stop" on the VCR to end the recording.

I know that we never watched that game again.

I know that 25 years later, the Cleveland Browns still have never been to the Super Bowl.

A few years ago Bill Simmons wrote an article attempting to enumerate the most cursed sports franchises in America. He put the Browns at number four, behind the Bills, the Vikings, and, the darling of all futile sports teams, the Cubs. The fact that Cleveland's other two professional sports teams make the same list in the top ten easily makes Cleveland the most cursed sports city in the country. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why did Grandpa do this to me?

It was a little surreal going through Grandpa's things after he died in February. His health had been failing for quite some time, so he had already gotten rid of most of his material possessions. It's safe to say that most of what was left was the stuff he really wanted to hold on to. Not surprisingly most of what we found had an orange helmet on it or was trimmed in brown. There's a mini Riddell helmet that sat in his living room for all those games of heartbreak we endured together. It's found a new home now in my office.

I will forever be struck by the irony of the fact that the last football game my grandpa ever watched was the 47th consecutive Super Bowl that the Browns weren't playing in. And the last Super Bowl champion he ever saw was the team that used to be the Browns . . . that team whose name shall not be mentioned in an article about my grandpa.

Joe Thomas, Cleveland, Browns, NFL, footballThere's a lot about football that bothers me. It is utterly ridiculous that I invest so much money and, especially, so much emotional capital into whether or not my sports teams are successful. There's a lot about the American obsession with football that is troubling. Anything as big and as powerful as the sport of football is sure to be riddled with flaws. Amidst the billion dollar contracts, sold out college and NFL stadiums, and off-the-charts television ratings, it's sometimes easy to ignore football's dark side. Persistent player arrests, devastating injuries having become widespread, and chronic post-concussion symptoms highlight that there is much that football must improve. The very quarterback from that 1987 AFC Championship and my childhood hero, Bernie Kosar, serves as a poster child for the dark side of football. Recently, Kosar has had some very public embarrassments, attributed to his many concussions.

But in our haste to condemn the ills of football, we should be cautious not to overlook the beauty of this game. As the Cleveland Browns take the field on September 8, 2013 against the Miami Dolphins I will once again put on my Browns jersey. 1:00 pm. Sunday afternoon. Holy time.

I'm older now and I watch the game differently than I did back in the 1980's. The game itself is actually quite a bit different from what it was in the 1980's. Our family is dispersed so we no longer have a regular holy family gathering, and we will have to find a new way to celebrate the holy meal.  And for the first time in my 34 years, I won't be able to talk to Grandpa about football.

The odds-makers say the Browns are a 60-1 shot for winning the Super Bowl, but I plan to root them on as if they were the favorite. There's a lot wrong with football, and I'll spend a good deal of my time focusing in on that. But what's right about football is that it helps usher in some of my fondest memories sitting alongside my grandpa cheering on our team - a team that happens to lose more times than it wins. Maybe sports is about more than winning and losing after all. It has to be, or I would have given up on the Browns a long time ago. I wish I could ask Grandpa what he thinks about that. 

Adam is the minister of the Alum Creek Church of Christ in Lewis Center, OH where he lives with his wife Mary Beth and their three children: Clark, Clementine, and Cecilia. You can find more of his writing at Theological Vacillation and you can follow him on Twitter @CrasslyYours.

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Monday, March 4, 2013

The Top 25: Bigger, Better, Faster, Farther (Or, The Idiocy of Rankings)



foam finger, we're #1, number one
There are no "We're #2" foam fingers.

by Adam Metz

And now (drum roll please . . . )  the Top 25 Longest Turds in the World!

Or, not really. Forgive the crass introduction, but I just keep waiting to see such a show break onto the scene of one of the many reality shows gracing today's television networks. Americans, we know, like to rank just about everything (and I'd bet my house that there's a college fraternity somewhere with just such a Top 25 ranking . . . but I digress).

We are a country obsessed with superlatives. Whether we are talking about academics, sports, or professional eating, we have found a way to determine who's the biggest, the fastest, and the best at just about everything. Most of the discussions about sports revolve around who is number one. This college basketball season is one of the most compelling in recent memories largely because no team has risen head and shoulders above all others. The number one team in the country has fallen several times in just the past few weeks.

This alone should make us question the whole idea of there even being a "Number One," except we can't stand the thought of that. Look at what has happened in recent years in college football. From two opinion polls, to computer rankings, to a combination of both . . . and now we're headed for a four-team playoff: we just can't stand the ambiguity of not knowing who is Number One. 

Dale Earnhardt Sr., mustache, NASCAR
Best athlete? No. Best mustache? Yes!
It's always interesting to see the kinds of programming that ESPN comes up with when they are in between major championship coverage (as we are right now). This week they've created a tournament bracket to determine the greatest athlete of all time, using their sports science metrics. Who was greater: Bo Jackson or Muhammad Ali? Jim Brown or Dale Earnhardt Sr.? (seriously?) American sports has devolved into a perennial pissing contest, constantly obsessing over which conference is best, which athlete is the greatest, who makes the sweetest dunk, who hits the longest home run, and on and on they go.
 
Admittedly, most of these discussions are superfluous exercises conjured up simply to give hardcore fans something to keep their interest in the offseason; hardly something to take too seriously. That is not to say, however, that this obsession with Number One doesn't have serious side effects. 

These seemingly harmless exercises in quantifying greatness are being felt in a real way in youth sports. Children grow up hearing their families as well as the media obsess over the best teams in the land, covering championships, and issuing constantly changing rankings. Watch any post-championship game coverage and inevitably the sports personalities will offer a "first look at next year's rankings." The desire to rank Number One is insatiable. 

Nowhere is this more evident than with the Amateur Athletic Union - known more widely by their abbreviation, AAU. If you ever want to burst your bubble about the state of amateur athletics in the United States, do a little research into AAU basketball. In his hard-hitting book on youth sports, Game On, Tom Farrey includes a fascinating chapter about J-Mychal Reese, an exceptional basketball player who was ranked as the number one overall player in the country . . . among other sixth graders! (Reese is now a freshman at Texas A&M). 

The AAU website proudly includes their top twenty-five power rankings in two divisions for boys, starting with fourth grade teams. These are national rankings. And these rankings are part of the genius of their marketers. In order for these teams to be ranked, they must participate in certain sanctioned tournaments. Thus, the AAU determines where (and how often) these sanctioned tournaments are held - often receiving huge financial incentives from the host site (usually a resort or expensive hotel).   

This has real life impact. This dictates to many families where they will spend their vacations and their discretionary income. After all, who doesn't want their child to be ranked Number One? 

parent, coach, youth sports, megaphone
Parents, do not speak to children through megaphones.
This is yet another example of the way that we have lost our way in sports. Sports were created to be good. They fill a crucial role in culture. Unfortunately, humanity is pretty good at taking things which are good and messing them up. The costly pipe dreams of national championships and division one scholarships lead families on yearly snipe hunts, more often than not finding "success" just beyond their reach. But, there's always next year. 

It is important for Christian families to pull back the curtain and see who the man there really is. Too often, families have allowed dreams of athletic success and dominance to cloud their better judgment in regard to the time they spend with their children. There must be times to simply let children play and stop asking who won, or who is the best. It's awfully difficult to bring our children the message of a suffering servant who "did not consider equality with God something to be grasped" in the midst of our trying to figure out how we can help them take down Number One. 

Adam is the minister of the Alum Creek Church of Christ in Lewis Center, OH where he lives with his wife Mary Beth and their three children: Clark, Clementine, and Cecilia. He is nearing completion of his Doctorate of Ministry at Fuller Seminary. His first love is working with teenagers, and he is trying as hard as possible to keep from growing up. You can find more of his writing at Theological Vacillation and  you can follow him on Twitter @CrasslyYours.