Another End [editor]

Silhouette version 2 is closed for the season. Thanks to all the contributors for their thoughts and creativity. Version 3 is slated for October through December. If you are interested in contributing, please email silhouette.words@gmail.com.

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Faith and Writing Festival
Naomi and Justin Boyer

A few months back, Calvin College and Seminary hosted its semiannual Faith and Writing Festival with nearly 70 speakers and 2,000 participants. The festival, started in 1990, engaged writers and readers with lectures, interviews, workshops and community circles, which were focused on certain genres. The landscape of genre itself ranged from high and lofty fiction to dirt road spiritual memoir to underground graphic novels. Variety was found in the speakers as well (not all coming from a Christian worldview): Yann Martel, Rob Bell, Mary Karr, Elizabeth Berg, and Paul Mariani. Even the two concerts were diverse: Caedmons Call one night, Iron and Wine another. The opening welcome to the festival revealed the thesis of the three day event: To stretch your creative and moral mind. It definitely accomplished these goals, and more. Here are a few reflections and mindful meanderings from a husband/wife duo about the festival.

Breaking a Mold [naomi]

My senses are wholly alive. I am in a room full of authors walking around, breathing this air, sitting in that chair, eating a snickerdoodle from that plate. The energy from this first contact is absolutely riveting. Amateurs are mixed with professionals alike; we are peers here. I am studying every face, glancing at every nametag (I see Luci Shaw!), feeling my way through the crowd. As it turns out, the more I look through the crowd, I am hit with a few realizations that begin to cascade one upon the other, the first being that the majority of the crowd gathered is composed of middle-aged women, the second being that my impressions of one of my favorite living authors, Kathleen Norris (The Cloister Walk), are about to be forever disturbed. As I continue with my near crazed impulse to read nametags, I wonder—terrified and intrigued—at how I will recover from the Kathleen Norris of my mind turning into another one of those middle-aged women with frilly hair and pleated turquoise pants (no offense). Will it change the way I read her work? It would be a full day before I was to find the answer to this question.

My great discovery of this first day is the ease and tranquility latent in Luci Shaw’s reading of her poetry. I had heard Luci’s name before many a time, but her being a poet (and me having a terrible fight with poetry in a certain creative writing class) always dissuaded me from further inspection. Luci speaks and gentleness—quiet musings strung together like pearls—spills from her lips, lingers in the air and comes to rest on my ears, prying me open, summoning a response.

The next day, I find myself in a workshop of hers entitled, “How a Poem Happens”, wherein she showed us some poems at their conception—journal entries, scratchings, the scribbling out of phrases—and their journey toward maturity. “Always, always have a notebook with you and write down your perceptions immediately, before they get cold,” Luci admonishes us. “There is nothing on earth that cannot be written about… even the smallest things.” After the panoply of poems, Luci offers this advice, “Usually there are too many adjectives and modifiers in use. Allow the verbs to carry the poem. Ask yourself: ‘If stripped to the verbs and nouns, does the poem still stand?’ This allows the reader to fill in the blanks.” And finally, Ms. Shaw reveals why she loves the word “revision”: Because it literally means to see something with fresh eyes (re-vision), which, by the way, is exactly how I feel about poetry right about now. She has turned me into a believer; I will try my hand.

It is a new day, the day of reckoning between the imagined and the real Kathleen Norris. I have had my coffee, kissed my husband hello and goodbye several times already, and, bracing myself, am now heading toward the auditorium to face the truth. I arrive to find Kathleen Norris difficult to class, even to describe. She is pleasant, though not prone to smiling, often pausing mid-sentence as though a new thought had just occurred to her. She does not carry an air of wit or superior intelligence, as I have seen in other authors, and neither does she have a mysterious aura around her. But there is something. I just can’t put my finger on it. She is not what I was expecting, but certainly not what I feared.

In her next lecture, Ms. Norris discusses the topic of her new book (yet to be published), acedia, which is loosely defined as “an inability to care”, especially in regard to spirituality. She notes that this term was used often in early church writing, but was dropped from the English dictionary over time, resulting in an unfortunate occurrence of a condition with no name. “Art comes forth from acedia”, Kathleen continues, citing No Country for Old Men, wherein the anti-hero is consumed with a restless boredom with life. It is obvious that she has spent quite a bit of time studying and turning over this topic in her mind, and she admits that it has made for some dismal research, making a dry comment about almost wanting to rent The Sound of Music after watching two movies that depicted acedia… almost. While most people might find it daunting to work with such a heavy subject matter, Ms. Norris headed straight into the demon, seeking out its name and character. I think that this is the “something” that I could not figure out earlier. Kathleen Norris is not who I had in mind, but she is exactly who she needs to be for her task: Questioning, courageous, relentless, down-to-earth, and yes, a little rough around the edges.

Luci encourages me to pick up a pen and capture a moment, no matter how small. Kathleen tells me that no other writer can do my job. The two couldn’t have planned their lesson more effectively for this pupil to step out of her comfort zone.

Ink and Soul [justin]

Derek Webb enters the room wearing a brown-and-orange striped Dr. Seuss looking scarf. He has a water bottle in hand. It seems whenever I’ve seen Derek perform or heard him speak, his voice was raspy and on the verge of filing for divorce. This time is no exception.

The crowd is surprisingly small – only about thirty, mostly college-aged, people have come for the interactive interview. The first part of the session deals mostly with Derek’s worldview and how he is more of an Aaron than a Moses – regurgitating what has already been said in the past on issues dealing with theology and social justice. He confesses, however, that along with singing and songwriting, agitating is one of his talents. The crowd chuckles. In balance, he says there is a need for discernment, which often comes in the form of a female voice (his wife, Sandra MaCracken), in questioning, “What are the right things to rebel about?”


The latter part of the talk focuses on artistry. It is 88% preparation, with the craft of songwriting, Derek says, but the remaining 12% is more mysterious and can’t be forced; it just comes. The whole of a well-written song should be like that of a Trojan Horse; good music and melody gets you through the door and then you “attack” the listener lyrically. When asked about what Derek has been listening to and what the sound of the next album is going to be like, the answers are the same: Gnarles Barkley. We chuckle again from an unexpected left field fly ball, but Derek is straight laced about it, which will make his next solo project very interesting.

Brian Doyle, essayist and editor of Portland magazine, is a pleasant surprise. The room is overcrowded and the air-conditioning has decided to take a step outside. I capture a seat on the floor and take in Brian for the first time. He and the host joke about the heating problem; this is a dry campus, but there is no rule about lack of clothing.

Scrapping the microphone and podium, he engages us as is. He is a very emotional and dynamic man. The crowd laughs at his retelling of an awkward four-minute argument with the Dalai Lama one moment and in the next the room is filled with watery eyes as he reads an essay about a time he regretfully hit his son. Men, fathers, responded to that work in multitudes, connecting with Brian in a unique way saying that they too have been “that man in the hallway.”

Brian encourages all the writers in the room to observe life, ask questions, listen and then write. Writing is not only informative and communal, but therapeutic as well. Writers are carpenters – we write to see what we think, what we have inside us. Write well, Brian says, but don’t be bogged down with systematic journalism. Instead, simply reach out for another. He concludes the session by asking all of us to sing his mom her favorite hymn for her birthday that day. Together, in a room of strangers with more than a few things in common, we sing Amazing Grace.

On the last day of the festival, I get to my first seminar a few minutes late; it is standing room only in the seminary chapel. Jeffrey Overstreet, another unbeknownst speaker, is sharing part of his spiritual journey, intermingling faith and film. He stands at the foot of the cross, banners of light hanging from either side. He is not as dynamic as Mr. Doyle was, but there is something in his tone and his wit and his content that draws you in and keeps you attentive. Of all the speakers, Overstreet is the one I appreciate the most as an intertwining of the Gospel, the message we are to proclaim, and culture, messages we should listen to, takes place over the next hour.

Eternity is written on the hearts of men and women (Ecc. 3:11). Overstreet reminds everyone that this common grace includes both saints, whose art can be terrible, and fools, whose art can be beautiful. Culture, as an artistic metaphysical idea, is neither inherently good nor inherently evil. One thing it is however is a representation of worldview and beliefs, a tool that can often be used to expose darkness (Ephesians 5:11).

Frequently when culture and art is used or reacted to, it is either in the religious form of picketing and book burning, or in the worldly form of amusement, which is originally meant to divert attention away from serious matters or simply to not think. Overstreet suggests neither of these should be the case with Christians. Rather we should test all things, holding fast to what is good, and use dialogue about the art to buy back the time. The way friendships tend to go with our non-believing friends is that they need to ask questions before we can give them answers. The movie Closer is his example. Christian reviewers condemned that film, and while Overstreet could not necessarily recommend it to others, it displayed the depravity and brokenness of human relationships and did not try to hide it. If used in a redemptive way, one could shed light on another’s thoughts about sexuality and identity that resulted from viewing the film. This requires engaging a person, however, with kindness, patience, knowledge and gentleness of truth (2Ti 2:22-26), a far harder thing than yelling at a corporate building holding a sign.

Overstreet challenged me to be holy and relevant; Doyle encouraged me simply to write; Webb was just fun to listen to again. I am still trying to sort out everything from the ten or so speakers I heard while at the Faith and Writing Festival. There are some ideas to keep and some to toss. One has been haunting me for some time now and has not quieted its voice: Little children, let us not love [only] in word or talk but in deed and in truth.

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Pure Religion [jessi]

“Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.”

About four years ago, while volunteering for a child sponsorship organization, I was in conversation with a woman interested in sponsorship. On the point of filling out the proper forms, she asked, almost as an afterthought, if this organization had any dealings with the Catholic Church. This hadn’t occurred to me before. I quickly rifled through all the literature I had been provided—Mission Statements, and financial disclosures. None of these were stamped in 24pt font with “No Catholics Allowed” so I had to be honest and tell her that I didn’t know. They work with established churches in poor communities, and while they are an Evangelical organization, I supposed it was possible that they worked in conjunction with a Catholic church if that’s where there was a need.

She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment, and then unclicked the pen. She said (and these are her exact words—I still remember because they made me so angry), “I’d rather have a child not hear the gospel at all than have her hear about him from the Catholics.”

I would like to tell you that I drew myself up and looked at her with clear steady eyes, and told her that her money would give food and clothing and an education—not just a Sunday school lesson. That she was heartless and petty. I wish I had told her that she ought not to have heard about Jesus at all, if she was going to go around telling people about a white Protestant Jesus who only loves little children who go to Protestant churches. But I’m afraid my mouth gaped open, and the only thing that came out sounded like “uh-uhhnnn…”

Years later, that woman still embodies to me everything that is wrong with American Christians. She left me standing at my table while she gathered up her three precious kids, loaded them into her Ford Explorer, and drove home. A home that has electricity, running water, and food in the kitchen pantry. And somewhere, a couple thousand miles south and a little bit east, a little girl wasn’t learning about Jesus from the Catholics. I suppose it’s possible that this woman went home, checked out the organization online, satisfied her personal issues, and signed up. Maybe, but I doubt it.

I’m not here to argue about denominations—I feel pretty woefully ill-equipped to tackle that sort of thing. And anyway, the issue isn’t so much which group of Christ-followers you are a part of, but whether you are actually following Christ. One thing I’ve always liked about the Bible is how it constantly champions the underdog. In Leviticus there’s a whole section that shoots to pieces the idea that business isn’t personal—in sections across the board, dealing with everything from acceptable sacrifices to property ownership, there are exceptions for the poor.

Isaiah 58 is one of the most convicting things I’ve ever read, because it shows not only exactly where God’s priorities are, but also how far we fall short of his benchmark. It opens with God’s people upset that God doesn’t seem to be paying attention to an elaborate show of devotion, but God turns around and tells them that their display is a sham, and then tells them exactly what kind of repentance he wants to see:

Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?

Bring the homeless poor into our houses? Who does this kind of thing? Not anyone I know. This is the part where I'm going to lose most of you. You'll stop reading because I'm going to make you feel guilty and angry, and you're going to justify in your head all of the reasons why you shouldn't rush out and become the next Greg Mortenson (no, seriously. Have you read Three Cups of Tea? The guy moves mountains all by himself). You have a family, a job, and other commitments. You tithe to your church, and isn't that all Jesus tells us to do anyway? A Christian slogan like “love God, and love people” is popular—google it, and you’ll get over 15,000 hits—but we tend to limit its meaning to the people in our established bubble. If no one within that immediate circle is poor, needy or oppressed, are we off the hook? I don’t think so. The world is full of hurting people, and we who live in the wealthiest nation are the few who have the resources to do anything about it.

Here are some of my favorites:

http://www.globalvolunteers.org/index.html
http://www.volunteermatch.org/
http://nothingbutnets.org/
http://www.one.org – I mean, come on! Be a part of Bono’s tribe!
http://www.compassion.com/default.htm
http://www.worldvision.org
http://www.redcross.org/

There are a billion ways to help, even if you don’t have the resources of Bill Gates, Oprah, or Bono. Get off your butt and start giving cups of cold water to the very least of these. I don’t care about your politics or your denomination. Jesus doesn’t, either.

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What Really Matters? [editor]

Last night I imported all the personal essays and poetry pieces from version 2 of Silhouette into Wordle. After some small, rational edits, the Word Cloud below reveals the inner psyche of Silhouette's contributors.

What do you see?

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Naked on a Rooftop [justin]

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Untitled [jana]

Some memories are simply ideal moments. I have a few of those stored away in metaphorical boxes of spicy dried rose petals. I take them out every once in a while and handle them carefully, lovingly, looking at them from every angle and seeing them anew. Some have grown faded with age, blurry round the edges, like those old photos that were printed on bad paper so the color went monochromatic. Some look as if they were formed whole and beautiful, but were later damaged by other forces; water damage, maybe, making the words illegible, and causing the pictures to distort and fade. A few are acid-burnt, eaten away with bitterness so the last remnants of sweetness are difficult to discern. A very few are whole and perfect the date written on acid-free paper, with permanent ink, photographs printed on the best paper, framed and set under indestructible glass. One such is clear today. It is shared by someone I knew only casually, and whom I probably only really remember because of this one day. She asked if I wanted to walk one October afternoon during my senior year at college. So we headed out in the crisp-edged blue fall day to the Back Forty school acreage, meandering first along the blackberry trail behind the art building.

At the end of the trail, near the entrance to the woods via the tunnel under the railroad tracks, stood an apple tree. We stood under it, looking up at the red and yellow apples against the black branches and blue sky. After a little bit of chat about the apples, I gave the trunk of the tree a good shake (a technique I learned from reading Anne of Green Gables, of course), and two round, rosy apples dropped neatly to the ground. We picked them up, and walked further along the trail and into the meadow on the edge of the school woods, where long grass tassels curved over, a spider web spun in the crook between tassel and stem. I was polishing the apple on my jeans as we talked about a literature class we were both taking, Romantic Poetry, I think. I polished and polished it. The apple seemed sound and whole and shiny, so I dared to take a bite. Sweet, tart, cidery...I've never eaten as good of an apple before or since. The entire fruit was sweet, crisp, fresh, cold, and bruise- and worm-free. Each taste seemed different. I finished munching the apple as we walked back out of the woods. I wished I could keep the core or the seed or the stem of the apple to remind me of the memory, but I didn't. The memento was the memory...all consumable, only present in the moment.

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