Philadelphia [jay]

God moves in the city and speaks in the country. It’s a pretty common concept if you think of it from a story perspective. Moses was raised in high culture of Egypt, but did not hear God speak till alone in the wilderness somewhere. Jesus went to the cities to teach and interact, and retreated to the hills to hear from God. God made a garden for Adam and Eve, not a city. Paul spent three years on the backside of the Arabian Desert before planting churches in the cities of the Middle East and Greece. Abraham, Hagar, Jacob, Joseph, Deborah, Samson, David, Esther, John…the dichotomy of country and city is everywhere.

Country and city are more philosophical entities than they are geographical locations. Take for example, my favorite city, Philadelphia. Today, my wife and I traveled here from the country – Lebanon, Pennsylvania – to hang out and visit a friend. As is our custom, our semi-regular pilgrimage to the city of brotherly love begins with a trip to our Mecca of south Philly, Pat’s Steaks. For about ten bucks, one enjoys a culinary utopia of meat, onion, cheese, bread, and soda that is unparalleled in unhealth and unrivaled in unbelievability. I grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia about 45 minutes west of the city proper. I love south Philly, I’d love to live and raise my kids in south Philly, and something fun and raw comes alive in me when I am in south Philly. It’s a uniquely common place where I, a uniquely normal guy, feel a legitimate brotherhood with my uniquely salt-of-the-earth stranger brethren.

After our steaks and some shopping on South Street, we decided to check out a bookstore I knew of but had never frequented. Located on the University of Pennsylvania campus, on a block corner across from the Law School, it’s pretty unrivaled in unique selection and diversity of thought. Bookstores make sense to me. I’m at home with my hard and soft covered friends and look forward to making more of their printed acquaintance. But at this bookstore and in the place I am now – a Starbucks just down the block -- I feel weird. It’s not that I feel out of place, or that I don’t fit in, it’s that I just don’t get it. It is tight and uncomfortable with a pedal-to-the-metal kind of feel that is a bit warped (and I’m a pedal-to-the-metal kind of guy). Law students and consultants everywhere, all speaking in a legalese dialect birthed from a bitter mix of insecurity and fear-driven boldness, all for the purpose of God-only-know-what.

It’s enough to drive you crazy. Please tell me I’m not the only one going insane in this packed out coffeehouse.

Pat’s is the country.
This Starbucks is the city.

The Athenians said to Paul, “Let’s go to the Aeropagus to hear more.”
Today we say, “Let’s go to Starbucks to talk more.”

The guy at the table next to me is a law student who looks like the character Abed from that new comedy “Community”. He is trying to land a job with a firm in Chicago. He, and four law student colleagues get twenty minutes with a pretty, articulate law firm consultant hired by the prospective firm, and then another group of four or five students move in to interview for another twenty minutes. It’s like cattle lining up at the slaughterhouse. I assume she’s been slaughtering all day, maybe that’s why she’s so passive-aggressively angry. Anyway, Almost-Abed has already had a job with a firm in Philly and clearly has his sights set on continuing his promotions in Chicago. With an air of mustered courage, he just very authoritatively asked, “Now is that pre-acquisition or post-acquisition as you see it?” And followed it up with thoughts and questions about allocation managers, “SanFran”, intern recruitment strategies, the Boston office, and philosophical management theory. And there are about eight of these conversations with eight different consultants going on at the same time! (By the way, he finished his interview, and I just saw him walking out the first floor doors saying to his buddy that if he lands this job, he’s definitely “getting some of that” once he gets to Chi-town).

Philly is all city -- but for me, south Philly is the country in the city. And every country spot has its city portal where the sun stands still longer than it should and important spiritual, family, personal and communal battles can be won.

The city portal is the place where the voice we hear in the country becomes the voice we speak in the city. Problem is, we mistakenly think it’s our call to produce the voice, when in reality it is our calling to hear the voice. Our calling (calling must be heard) to hear (more listening that takes us back to calling that must be heard) the voice (not our voice, but the Voice that we listen to in order to hear our calling).

The question is not, what do I think?
The question is: what do I hear?
And, what are you hearing?
And, why are we hearing the same voice but not understanding one another?
And, where the hell (or heaven) is that voice coming from?

People think that God speaks in a still, small voice. Well, he certainly did to Elijah, but in other places His voice roars like thunder and shakes mountains. To Balaam, he spoke through a donkey, to Hannah he spoke through a priest, and to Moses he spoke directly like a friend speaks to a friend. The voice of the Lord makes high places low and low places high. It calms the seas, creates the universe, calls the disciples, and cradles the children. When God speaks, all the earth is silent before Him. To be still and know He is God is not an imperative, it is an invitation…an invitation to hear…indeed, to listen.

Listening in the city is not very different from listening in the country. Because the Speaker is one who never changes, the words are not any more or less difficult to receive. The question is: do we have ears to hear? That is the invitation after all – “Let the one who has ears to hear, hear what the Spirit says….” It is a call to listen, to receive, to abide, to rest, to be fulfilled, to be whole.

It is an invitation to shalom.

The Hebrew notion of “shalom” is bigger than peace. Peace is a part of shalom, but it is not shalom. Shalom is wholeness, shalom is solitude and silence. Shalom is harmony, love, rest and beauty.

Wholeness in shalom is all the pieces of One.
Solitude in shalom is presence of One.
Silence in shalom is voice of One.
Harmony in shalom is orchestra of One.
Love in shalom is desire of One.
Rest in shalom is arms of One.
Beauty in shalom is sight of One.

When God says he rested on the seventh day; that was shalom. God’s voice was still as He took His newly created universe and His image-bearers to His higher place – shalom -- and they knew God. His voice did not need to speak, for what needed to be said? God was there, all creation was whole, love was perfect…there was rest.

In Egypt, God’s people were in slavery. When God granted freedom, His heart for them was His rest…their rest…His land…their land. The theme of the conquest book of Joshua is that of rest, not war. The purpose of obedience to the voice of the Lord they received in the wilderness (the country) was to redeem the land of Israel (the cities) so that the land may have rest. But God’s people kept getting more and more noisy. Instead of listening, they kept talking; instead of following, they wanted their own way.

“We’re bored with manna!”
“This water is bitter!”
“We want meat!”
“Make us a golden calf!”
“We will obey, we promise!”
“We won’t obey, forget you!”
“We’re tired of walking!”
“We’re tired of fighting!”
“Moses is amazing!”
“Moses is a chump!”
“Joshua is amazing!”
“Joshua is a chump!”
“Let’s just take the cities we want!”
“Give us a king!”
“Why are we in captivity?!”

Consequently, there was no rest for the land. The land was embittered and angry, the people became selfish and idolatrous and the land was divided and destroyed. A land flowing with milk and honey became a land flowing with blood and pain.

When the Son of God came to earth, He came offering His people their destiny: His Kingship, full and free – all their greatest dreams come true. A return to the seventh day. Shalom.

And they refused. They refused because they heard, but they didn’t listen. They looked, but they didn’t see. They wanted bread, but not Bread of Life. They wanted healing for their bodies, but not healing for their souls. They wanted a king with simple power, not a King with true power. Their love of One voice was polluted with the noise of other voices and before long, they couldn’t hear at all anymore. Their country and city collided and had a bastard child named Striving.

And there was no rest for their souls.

Philadelphia has no rest for its soul. Nor do the people at Pat’s or Almost-Abed. For that matter, neither do I. But I do believe in a frequency of redemption and grace to which we can all be tuned. But the frequency will be neither utilitarian nor pragmatic. It is the Voice of One who alone can speak the wholeness and rest our spirits crave. But it is only heard by those with ears to hear.

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Tyler [hannah]

I wonder if I’m a mutant. Maybe I was a born a mutant or maybe something happened to me that turned me into one. I don’t remember eating kryptonite, or being struck by lighting, or getting an MRI done and during it the room suddenly goes black and sparks fly from the giant machine into my head and doctors are screaming, “Get him out of there! What’s happening?”

Nope, nothing strange ever happened to me that I know of. So I’m not sure where The Ability came from. It just wasn’t there, and then it was-- when I fouled a guy during the semi-finals for the Division II Indiana High School boys basketball state championship.

My coach was glad I fouled him. This kid couldn’t sink a free throw to save his life. I should’ve been happy, but as soon as I touched him I felt queasy and my eyes and mind jerked to the bleachers. To some girl I’d never met before. I couldn’t stop staring at her. I watched her cheer for the opposing team and I wanted to throw up. I adjusted my sweaty jersey and wondered if she thought my sweat was manly or disgusting. Then I wondered what her sweat was like, and my coach yelled at me.

And I knew something wasn’t right.

My friend TJ backhanded my chest and told me to snap out of it. And I did. Which was weird. My mind popped right back into the game like nothing had happened. But now TJ stood like an idiot, staring at the other teams’ fan section. He adjusted his sweaty jersey.

Things got worse after that.

After the game my mom hugged me, and then I was mad at my dad. I was mad that he’d missed dinner that night. I was mad that I’d called him earlier and he’d turned his phone off. Only I hadn’t eaten dinner with my family, and I hadn’t tried to call my dad earlier. My mom had. I stood in the middle of the loud gym and wondered what was wrong with me, but then my mom put her hand on my shoulder and I felt normal again. The weird anger was gone.

I was happy until someone brushed against my arm. I was suddenly terrified that I was going to fail trigonometry. I don’t take trigonometry. I’m not entirely sure what trigonometry is. Someone said, “good job” and patted my back. Trig no longer frightened me.

I was starting to freak out about what was happening to me, so I hurried out of the packed gym. I ran for the safety of locker room showers. No one touches you in there.

And no one touched me all weekend. Which I guess sounds kinda sad, but I’m ok with it. I’m not a snuggler. I don’t exactly kiss my parents goodnight. Me and TJ don’t cuddle on the couch when he comes over to play Xbox. So I was alright until school on Monday when Tammy Weidig handed me a copy of our US History homework. Her hand brushed mine and I felt fat. Huge. I was humiliated to be surrounded by a class full of size-four-girls. I looked down at my own body. My trim 6’2” frame seemed sloppy and disgusting. I wasn’t really a toned athlete. I was a fat pig. No guy was ever going to ask me out. I was going to die without ever having a boyfriend.

I stared over at Tammy. Me and the other guys from the basketball team call her Tranny Wei-pig behind her back, because she’s kinda chubby and we’re kinda jerks. I didn’t know what else to do. I reached over and grabbed her wrist. It worked. I saw her face kinda scrunch in on itself. Then I didn’t feel fat anymore, and I didn’t wish another dude would ask me out.

I raised my hand and told my teacher I was sick. I didn’t bother going to the nurse. I cut class and went home.

…

My dad wasn’t supposed to be home. My stomach balled into a knot when I saw his car in the driveway. I walked up the sidewalk and heard him yelling. I opened the front door and heard my mom scream back.

They were in the kitchen. They both shut up when I walked in. Dad was red. Mom was white. Dad smelled like Milwaukee’s Best and failure. Mom told me to go to my room. I grabbed some Doritos and obeyed. On the way down the hall the yelling started again. Low at first, then rising higher and higher. I lay on my bed and listened to the muffled roars. Dad would calm down eventually. He’d take his anger out on something. The broken lawnmower in the garage, or whatever team was on ESPN, or my mom. I waited to make sure it was one of the first two.

But he didn’t go to the garage. And he didn’t storm off to the basement and the flat screen. The screaming escalated in the kitchen and I knew where it was heading. So I got up.

Dad wasn’t happy to see me. He’d made it clear that I should stay out of the way when he and mom were having one of their discussions. He yelled something at me, which was actually an insult to my parentage, and threw a dirty cereal bowl at me. I grabbed his shoulder and he shut up. He stared blankly at my face, while my body convulsed with hatred.

I staggered out of the kitchen and punched a wall. I made holes in the drywall and the skin of my knuckles. I ran outside.

I ran down my street. Out of my development. I ran until I was too tired to be angry or scared or anything else. I fell into the dead grass in front of an industrial park. Geese swimming in a green made-man pond honked at me.

…

It was dark when I got back home. Dad was gone. Mom was crying in the kitchen. I didn’t want to talk to her, but she heard me come in and called for me. She cried harder when she saw my swollen hand. She grabbed it and cried over it and her desperation washed over me. My mind filled with images of painkillers and razor blades and standing on the edges of tall buildings. I yanked my hand away when I saw myself standing on a chair with a rope in my hands. The gruesome pictures scrolled through my brain. I wanted them gone. But they whispered to me and reached for me. They cooed. They were so sweetly strong that I didn’t want to fight them.

I stared at my mom, stunned by what she’d been thinking about, and terrified that I now thought about it. And wanted it.

I looked down at her hand. It was still stretched toward me. I could touch her and these horrible temptations would be hers again. Or I could keep them. I already felt them growing into my brain, like the roots of some evil plant, twisting and wrapping its tentacles into my mind until removing it would mean I would cease to be.

I looked at my own hand. I saw my pulse in my wrist. The skin covering it looked paper-thin. So easy to tear. I couldn’t let my mom keep these thoughts.

I stumbled back to my room eyeing every bit of window glass, or mirror, or even picture frame with lust. I envisioned the medicine cabinet in the bathroom while trying to remind myself why I wanted to live. I fell on my bed. I saw how every object in my room could be used as a weapon against my own body.

My body. Full of these horrible longings. I wanted them gone, but where could they go? To someone else? Who do I force this on? How do I keep myself from ever touching and passing on these desires? When it would be so much better to keep them.

They wanted me. For harm, but they wanted me. And I didn’t know how to tell them no.

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Moon [jake]

Lying under the last of summer skies, in the coolness of autumn’s approach, I gave up trying to explain myself.

“I guess I just don’t know what I mean,” I concluded. Plus it was getting late.

“That’s it,” she replied. “That’s the question.”

I ceased breathing for a moment, as perplexed as ever by her response. “What?” I asked, and she just smiled.

I sat up abruptly and turned to her as she remained lying on her back. Thoughts without forms—which would become statements without words—stampeded through my brain, but, anticipating their futility, I kept them penned and held my tongue. She seemed not to notice, her eyes so lost above. She would undoubtedly be the end of me, I thought, feeling strangely exposed.

“We should go,” I said.

Instantly, as though she had been looking at me the entire time, her gaze shifted from deep space into my eyes—which, whenever she peered into them, seemed another sort of deep space. I shivered and tightened my arms around myself.

“We should go,” she echoed.

***

I had driven her home and was now lying restless in bed, contemplating the night’s conversation in tandem with my own bewilderment by it. It wasn’t that it was too deep or even out of the ordinary—in fact, most things she said tended to go over my head. It was that, I think, something in me finally connected to her words—no, not just her words…

After stirring and pondering for what seemed like hours, I grabbed my cell phone from my nightstand and called my friend, Rob.

“Ugh, yeah?” mumbled the groggy conversant on the other line.

“Hey.”

“What is it?”

“Can you meet me somewhere? I can’t sleep.”

He muttered something sleepy and indistinguishable. I waited and stared at my ceiling. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, meet me at Dim’s—we’ll grab a beer.”

***

“No, Greg, not yet—I’m waiting for Rob,” I said to the bartender. “Thanks though, I’ll let you know.” Greg knew me well. His family had owned this bar and restaurant since the ‘70s, and Rob and I had been going there on random late nights for years.

“No problem,” he said. “Let me know.” Greg slung a towel over his shoulder and walked away.

From the bar, I sat and absorbed the familiar surroundings: the faded, maple-stained wall-paneling, the hanging plaques and pictures of legendary patrons, the faint aroma steeped into the walls: beer, food, and dust. I glanced over my shoulder to see Rob staggering in, rubbing his eyes. He nodded his head toward a corner booth in the back, where we usually sat, and I followed his lead.

“Two, please,” Rob called as I slid across from him into the booth.

“You got it, guys,” Greg responded.

We sat quietly for awhile, while Rob gradually shed layers of sleep. For the first time I can remember, sitting in that same seat, I consciously looked out the window just above my friend’s head: the moon seemed noticeably fuller and brighter.

“Damn it, we’re getting too old to do this,” Rob yawned, stretching his arms like wings behind his head. “It was cool in college, but now… I don’t know.” He laughed and brought his arms back down. I nodded.

“Here you go, gentleman.” Greg placed our drinks on the table. “Just holler if you need a refill.” We thanked him and continued silently for awhile. I spun the coaster I wasn’t using for my drink on the table a couple times.

Rob took the first drink. “You know,” he said, pausing to savor the taste, “I’ve got to admit, I love this place. It’s tradition, you know? Makes you feel like you know who you are.” He took another drink. “It’s belonging.”

I nodded and took a slow drink.

“I had an interesting conversation with Sophie today,” I started, peering into my glass. “An interesting day, really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We each sipped our beers.

“I don’t know why I feel the need to talk this out, other than to capture some aspect of the swirling in my head, you know? Give some substance to these thoughts…” I sighed. “I don’t know if that will do a thing at all.”

“No,” Rob replied, “it’s cool, man. I’m listening. You’re here for me; I’m here for you—that’s why we started doing this.”

“Yeah, I know,” I agreed, still a little uneasy.

“So continue,” Rob said, holding his glass to his lips. I adjusted my position in the booth seat. Rob gulped his beer.

“Okay so, to start, the morning was a little unusual, but not dramatically—only in the sense that I woke up to her phone call rather than the alarm I had set for an hour later.

“‘You need to get up,’ she said cheerfully. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

“‘Now?’ I asked her.

“‘Yes, now,’ she said. ‘I’m outside.’

“So a t-shirt and a yesterday’s jeans later, I was slouching into her passenger seat and closing her car door. I told her that I had work in about two hours, just so she was aware, but instead of responding, she just asked if I was ready and smiled.

Rob laughed and I took another drink. “So where’d she end up taking you?”

“Totally random,” I exclaimed, though now I thought it considerably less so. “We pulled up to some old abandoned gas station, miles outside of town. I wouldn’t say I was completely shocked, but it was still a surprise.

“‘Isn’t it tragic?’ she asked rhetorically, stepping out of her car. She grabbed her camera from the backseat and started snapping photographs. Meanwhile I still sat in the passenger seat, wondering what she was doing, as usual. ‘You know how they say that homes without someone living in them seem to die faster?’ she asked. She continued speaking, but I had gotten out of the car by then and was circling the building. Someone had apparently smashed the padlock on the front door with a sledge or something, so Sophie and I wandered in and explored the place. It was somewhat interesting, but mostly just filthy. She meandered around in complete silence while I wrote my name in the dust on the counter.

“I was underlining my signature when she approached me and said, ‘Let’s go.’ She looked concerned, or contemplative.

“‘Let’s go,’ I echoed.

“The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. She brought me back home and I got ready for work. I spent the rest of the day working, and then she called me as soon as I got off.

“‘Can we go talk?’ she asked me—which seemed a slightly unusual request for her.

“‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

“‘Yeah, but take me somewhere. I want to go somewhere.’

“I was already driving back from work, so I just swung by her place to pick her up. I didn’t have a clue where to take her, but she seemed convinced that it should be up to me, so I headed out to that old field north of the city—you know, where we used to play capture-the-flag when we were kids?”

Rob nodded as he finished the last of his glass.

“So we pulled off of the dirt road and onto the field a little ways and got out. I grabbed a blanket from the bed of my truck and said, ‘I don’t know if this is what you had in mind, but—’ and she cut me off.

“‘Perfect,’ she said, marveling at the sky above us. ‘It’s great.’

“I rolled the blanket out in front of my truck, and we laid out on it, just staring silently for awhile.

“‘Look at that aura,’ she said, referring to the aura produced by the full moon, enveloped by a single, gray cloud. The scene was cliché to be sure—a guy and a girl in a field looking at the stars—but the more I told myself this, the more I felt pulled in by her gravity. I was captivated; the same aura that she saw above was shimmering in her eyes as she looked on. Hers was the aura I wanted, but it seemed that the further she affixed her eyes, the further I would be from reaching that aura—no matter how close to her body I was.

“‘Well?’ she asked, still gazing up.

“‘Well what?’ I responded, hoping for an invitation, but sensing something different.

“‘I thought you wanted to talk,’ she said. Once again, she had lost me—effortlessly, but cavalierly.

“‘I—what? I thought you said you wanted to talk about something.’

“She made a terse sigh, evidently frustrated with my response.

“We laid there in utter silence. She just stared on into the atmosphere, and I grew surprisingly upset about our conversation. For some unexplainable reason, it agitated something within me, deeply. I felt physically uncomfortable, shifting and squirming on the blanket. My eyes darted around for something to focus on, but the only things present were the moon and Sophie—both of which felt equally vexing. With nothing visual to distract me from my discomfiture, I was forced to seek release vocally.

“‘It’s like—I don’t know. I have never known, Sophie. I, well, you—you’re inexplicable, Sophie. You’re too simple and yet too complex. You’re a mystery—that sounds stupid. It’s like—a question. No, what question? I don’t know—I don’t know what you think I wanted to talk about, but I….”

“So there we were. Lying under the last of summer skies, in the coolness of autumn’s approach, I gave up trying to explain myself.

“‘I guess I just don’t know what I mean,’ I concluded. Plus it was getting late.

“‘That’s it,” she replied. ‘That’s the question.’

“I ceased breathing for a moment, as perplexed as ever by her response. ‘What?’ I asked. She just smiled.

“I can’t explain it. I had always thought that the feeling in me was for her—that the magnetism I sensed near her was love or something—but I don’t know. It was like, in that moment, something in me, beyond thought or attraction, connected not just to her words, but to her meaning. I just don’t know that I’ve ever felt that before.”

I sat still, staring out the window at that moon again.

“The truck,” Rob interjected.

“What?”

“In the field, when you wanted to distract yourself. You could’ve looked at your truck.”

A couple seconds passed. I nodded and emptied my glass.

Rob raised his hand and called Greg for two more beers.

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Yellow Shoes [steffeny]

Listen . . .

Do you hear it? Can you hear? As I sit the walls scream out to me. The perfectly painted walls, smart and glamorous, glorious crown molding proclaims. The charming matching curtains chime in. The neatly kept granite counters command. Together the chorus demands:

Be perfect. Look good. Be wonderful. Hide your hurt, your worries, your uncertainty, and insecurity. There’s no room for realness here. Pull yourself together. No corner of this house can take your mess. We will not accept it. Put on a smile. Harden your heart. We will show you the way to live in a house such as this. No crying. No pouting. No real life allowed. Only our make believe, fabricated, fake world can survive. This is the house on Barbi Lane where everything is beautiful.

Thus goes the familiar song of colorful compulsion and condemnation. But today something inside of me is compelled to answer back. No, I declare. My heart is a mess. My heart is alive. You perfectly painted walls, you fountain sinks and falls. I hear you call out to me, but I decline your request for pretense and perfection. And so a battle begins. Resistance is born and I find it personified in the form of two yellow shoes.

They’re bright, cheery, and unassuming. I love them. But the house snubs at them. She can’t even bear to have them near. They make my heart smile and remind me that freedom from sternly matching décor is possible.
As I step into the “princess bathroom” I feel the chic coupled blacks and whites sharply closing in around me. They surround me from every angle. Their piercing glares could tear me to shreds in minutes. Even the hot pink walls are menacing, sneering at me and my yellow shoes. The pristine granite shower and shining silver racks displaying matching towels neatly tied with polka dotted bows look down at me, growling their judgments. Their contempt cuts deep to my core. My heart feels the stabbing pain. This place might envelope my precious yellow shoes at any moment, sucking them off my feet and down into the underworld, sentencing them below into a dark abyss forever. This house will not tolerate their quiet defiance. Somehow my simple shoes stand a threat to this perfectly polished empire of elegance.

But wait, I stammer, I grew up in this house. It fits me. (I think…) Its messages and mantras fill my mind. I love my cheery yellow shoes. (Don’t I?) But I hear the accusations; you aren’t REALLY going to wear those shoes, are you??? I’m torn. I love the house on Barbi Lane and I love my precious yellow shoes. What do I do? How do I choose? I don’t want to revolt. I don’t want to rebel. And I don’t want to hide my yellow shoes.

Dear Barbi Lane,
Your daughter loves yellow shoes. Do you think that maybe you could love them too?

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hi [hannah]

It’s been a while since we’ve seen anything new here, but take heart! We’re making plans to roll out a new season of Silhouette Words starting in April. We already have a great group of writers committed for the new season including several who are brand new to the site. I’ll be editing the season, and am really excited about being a part of it. While I get things ready, you might stumble upon signs of site construction. I promise it will come together cleanly someday.

While I’m preparing for the new season here, Justin, Jake, Jessi, and Jenna are working on creating a print book highlighting pieces from the last five seasons of Silhouette. So stay tuned for news about that project as well.

Thanks! And see you in April!

- Hannah Johnson

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