Character: The LOST King

Live together, die alone.

That couldn’t be more fitting. Like no telling how many millions of people, last night we were caught up in the season finale of one of the most successful television shows of all time: Lost.

Much like my reading list, most of the TV-watching I do is focused on nonfiction: documentaries, the History Channel, a good program on PBS, etc., etc. But every once in a while something comes along that grips me. A story, or a character, or a plot poofs up (seemingly from mid-air, but good art always just looks like that) and grabs hold of me – my intellect and my affection.

Lots have commented on what they thought of the much-anticipated and probably over-hyped finale, and many didn’t care for it. Many wanted more answers to more questions. Many wanted more meaning attached to the ebb and flow of the storyline. They wanted a truer sense of right and wrong, or the tangible, touchable effect of the toils of our beloved characters.

I thought the ending to be near perfect because it stayed true to the bent of the entire show: we still have a few questions left floating in space, but, more importantly, we see the dominance of the characters in each others’ lives.
My wife and I watched the finale last night with friends. Exhausted we came home late and went to bed. Tonight, though, we watched the two-hour special leading up the finale from (DVRs are wonderful). The special recapped the plot twists up to the finale, along with actor and crew commentary. Terry O’Quinn, who played John Locke, said it best. Watching the end was like reading a wonderful piece of literature. You come to the end of the book and you don’t want to turn the back cover. You don’t want it to be over. But when you do, all you think is, “Gosh, that was great.”
Lost was such a wonderful piece of cinematized art because as good as all the thrills and frills were, the characters – the people, as Hemingway would have preferred to say – were more important than the action. The people were the action. F. Scott Fitzgerald said it well: “Character is plot, plot is character.”

Amen.

Never have I seen such a wonderful example of that on the small screen, maybe even on the big screen.

Lost was great not because of the mysterious mythology the writers created for the island. Lost was great not because of its unpredictability. Lost was great not because it seems like the entire series faithfully built up to the final showdown between Jack and Locke. Lost was great because when it ended, you forgot about yourself and were completely undone by the people you watched. Lost was great because at the final fadeout, you wanted to cry because you won’t be seeing these characters anymore. You won’t get to know them through anymore struggles. You won’t get to know the subtleties of humanity that they truthfully personified every week.
The people in Lost are what matter most to the misty-eyed fans they leave behind.
And without getting too much in to details, what was spectacular about the finale and the whole story was that the thing that we all thought would be the climax – the showdown between Jack and Locke – wasn’t actually the showdown that capped the show. What capped it was the characters’ relationships to each other. Seeing how it all ends and the emphasis on people is what makes Lost great. And unique. And timeless.

Perilous Days

There are days in which I can do nothing but grieve.

Our small community has seen and heard horrible things in recent days. An 88-year-old widow has died, and it may have been at the hands of an intruder in her home. A fierce collision took the life of a young mother this week. Another woman in her 80s was reportedly raped by someone who wandered into her nursing home room at 5 in the morning.

Creation is full of evil.

Seeing these things up close batters your spirit like a ship taking on heavy waters. The harder you’re hit, the more you’re reminded that there is something much bigger than you at work. You may know it is good, but the turbulence whirls you into depressed panic.

I can only imagine what it must be like to be a family member of someone stricken with such tragedy – such evil.

Scripture tells us why these things are, but sometimes that offers no comfort.

The waters come so quickly and are so fierce that all you can do is put your hands on your head and cry out.

Why is the world still like this? Why are people so evil? Why the suffering and injustice?

Then comes the answer, whispered so softly you would swear you imagined it: “I am here, and I am coming. And I love you.”

The rains continue to fall. The winds continue to gust. The waves continue to roll. But He is here, and He is working. And He loves those who are His.

Even so, some days I can only think of some of Christ’s last hours as He stared over Jerusalem and wept. And there are days all I can do is the same, for these are perilous days.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Come.

Cash for Clunkers . . . for Charity?

I haven't gotten political on here very often, but I was struck with an insight a few days ago, and I don't think I've heard this perspective yet.

The Cash for Clunkers program has been the subject of much talk lately: the media, blogs, Web sites, casual conversation, etc. It has surprised nearly everyone in the nation, even its creators; I'm still not sure how a program (that was meant to start in the beginning of July) gets under way in late July with the aim of lasting until November goes bankrupt after just a few days. Something about that doesn't seem quite right. But, it seems to be quite a success.

On NPR earlier this week, I heard one of the many stories that have been published on the program, and how the ol' clunkers had run into some financial roadblocks. The car dealers, who initially front the money to consumers for the clunker-trade-ins, have been put in an odd, counter-intuitive spot.

You see, most of the time when people bring in used cars, dealers immediately find ways to turn them around, sell them again, and make a profit. But the rules of Cash for Clunkers mandate that as soon as the dealers receive the sub-par, gas-gulping vehicles, they must pour a lethal cocktail into the engine, forever disabling it (I suppose it's the lethal injection for automobiles). Once they do that, the U.S. government would reimburse the dealer for doling out the cash to consumers. So whereas dealers used to turn clunkers around for revenue, now they must purge them.

As made evident by the speed in which Uncle Sam spent all his clunker capital, this program has infused quite a bit of cash into consumers' pockets, and into dealers' bottom lines. If the federal government is going to spend money to inflate a sagging economy, this seems like a reasonable way to do it. And whether or not you believe in global warming, it's a good idea to get less efficient vehicles off the roads.

But, it seems awfully counterproductive to jettison vehicles that still seem to have many more miles on them.

After hearing a dealer groan about wasting working vehicles in the NPR piece, I thought not of the profit they could make, but of the people who could use another vehicle, especially families strapped by a layoff, or a foreclosure, or just by an ever-tightening budget. I thought of folks not just here in the U.S., but also around the world.

Goodwill Industries has a program, and I'm sure they're not the only ones, where motorists can donate their vehicles to the company, which will then give the cars to folks enrolled in some of their programs who might need the extra vehicle. Maybe a large family can only afford a small, compact car, but needs a minivan. Maybe an elderly gentleman has to work, but can't get a job because he doesn't have a car. The scenarios are endless. What I'm getting at here is that I think there are scores of people who could use these clunkers. And people will can gain from this more so than the earth will benefit from cars being off the streets.

Now, I know one of the objectives for this program was to get not-so-fuel-efficient vehicles off the roads and to get more drivers into eco-friendly autos. So another idea I had was to breakdown the old clunkers and sell the parts for charity; donate that money to folks who need it. The dealers can't use the components anyways after they administer the car cocktail, so they won't lose any more money than they already would have. Just so long as the potential value in those vehicles isn't voided by a green seal of approval.

The fight to protect Creation -- the reason these vehciles are nixed -- is a valuable one, but I fear environmentalists and politicians aren't concerned with protecting Creation so much as they are intent to put the natural environment above human needs or to garner votes. There is a way we can both help Creation grow and care for people. The folks trading in these clunkers are upgrading to better vehicles anyway, and if the old cars are donated, people are being cared for, in a small way.

While I have my doubts about government-instituted welfare programs (that used to be the sole responsibility of the Church), if we're going to spend billions of dollars for this, let's find a way to benefit people too, not just the "environment," the vague term often used by those who see Creation exisiting due to chance and chemistry, for no such purpose as to benefit humans.

If we believe humans are indeed more valuable than "environment," let our national policy reflect that. But my fear is not many people believe that anymore.

Simple Creation

Thanks to Alaiyo for starting this line of thinking.

This week, for the first time in many weeks, I took time to enjoy Creation in simple ways. There's something almost mystical about the life and beauty of the natural world. Something as simple (thank you, Alaiyo) as mowing the yard showcases the versatility of not only Creation, but also its Creator.

The earth of course is full of sheer beauty, but our landscapes are multi-faceted, multi-faced. And nothing proves that like trying to force a lawn mower up a grassy hill, vulnerably positioned behind and below it. The hill's steep pitch and the pebbly soil's lack of dependebility force you to rely on your calf muscles and lean on your toes, pushing your own wieght against gravity -- and the weight of the mower. It's a battle, but a simple battle, that reminds you of the fierceness of the land (and that's not even that daunting of a hill, relatively).

But even with the fierceness of the land displayed often, more times than not I come back to the joy and peace Creation enstills in me. And again, as they often are, those things are realized in the simple acts of an evening at home. Perched in a comfortable patio chair at the top of the same hill (with freshly groomed grass, I might add), tonight I simply looked and listened. In front of me, to the west, was the remnant light of the sun, the leftover color fading into opaque twilight. The ridge supoorted the sky's blend as an easel supports the canvas. Meanwhile, the valley between the easel and me grew darker, its greenery fading to black. Ensconced as I was by the pine and maple trees, I heard the gentle roar of the secadas, rhythmic in their calls of peace and rest as the night fell.

Often times we find beuaty in life's complexities, but this week I was reminded to look to the simple, almost routine things -- something as laborious as yardwork, or as easy as sitting. And how beautiful is He who wrought all this.

I'm looking forward to the weekend.

The House on the Circle

This the first I've written in a while, which is a bit sad. Life has been so busy lately, so hectic, that by the time I'm home for the night, I just want to relax. But I had to come back to myself. Here goes.

The wife and I recently visited a place I haven't seen in, well, it has to have been at least 10 years. My aunt died over nine months ago, and my cousins are still accumulating trinkets from her life -- pictures of her, crafts she had labored over, clothes she had left behind. And they are fixing up her house, the one she raised her three boys in, the same one she was raised in with my mother and other siblings. Though I never lived there, I might as well have. I spent so much of the first five years of my life there, playing with my cousins. But life got in the way -- all the entanglements of broken relationships and complications of life got in the way. They seem to expand and touch each family member, as a broken wave crawls its way up to the highest grains of sand at tide. I didn't see my cousins as much, nor did I see my aunt as much once I got a little older. Once a year, maybe.

So walking back into that house Sunday was a jolt to my system; the shocks traveled from my external senses and up to the far reaches of my brain, into annals I hadn't touched in a decade.

The musty smell of the cramped utility room and the shadows that cloaked the exposed wall joints actually scared me, as they had as a five year old.

The angle of the kitchen counter top reminded me of the glass cookie jar she used to have packed-to-the-lid for us: Oreos and those buttermilk cookies with the holes in the middle, the ones you can stack five-high on your index finger.

The smell of honeysuckle and grass blades flooded my head when I went to the backyard, though it had been changed much by my cousins' updating. The old metal shed that reeked of lawn mowers and gasoline and whose sides were splotched with rust was gone; only a slab of concrete remained. The clothesline, that my grandmother had put in and that stretched almost the whole width of yard left only two holes in the earth. The chain link fence was seemingly un-linked by the ivy crawling up it sporadically. But the three slabs of dirty concrete, probably two feet by two feet each, were still beside the air conditioner. Even the metal handle, rusted as it was to the middle slab, was still there. That was back when the house only had the septic tank, which the slabs led into.

The weeds around the neighborhood were still there. Walking through neighbors' yards and the woods which surorunded them, the switches and vines grabbed at our bare legs, swishing our shins while my aunt led our expedition to the creek nearby, then to her old elemntary school.

The pear tree in the front yard had shrunk; it was much shorter than I thought it as a child. And though it was still alive, its leaves and fruit were far fewer. The crags and cracks in its bark showed up like wrinkles on skin. It had been so long.

Life was so different as a child, when the world seemed so immovable, and all was black and white. It was either scary, like the utility room, or it was fun and adventurous, like the treks through the weeds.

And you never think it will change. The trees will always be strong, fertile, and tall. The clothes line won't be taken away. And we'll always play in the back yard or walk through the woods, itchy as it was. She'll always be here.

How quickly we are reminded of what was. And in a strange way, sometimes we hope for it again.

The Gospel Way

Often times those who came before us seem to capture elegance and eloquence so much better than we. I wanted to share an example of that with a prayer I have been meditating on for several weeks. The Puritans had such a way of using words well.

The Gospel Way

Blessed Lord Jesus,
No human mind could conceive or invent the gospel.
Acting in eternal grace, thou art both its messenger and its message,
lived out on earth through infinite compassion,
applying thy life to insult, injury, death,
that I might be redeemed, ransomed, freed.
Blessed be thou, O Fathe, for contriving this way,
Eternal thanks to thee, O Lamb of God, for opening this way,
Praise everlasting to thee, O Holy Spirit,
for applying this way to my heart.
Glorious Trinity, impress the gospel on my soul,
until its virtue diffuses every faculty;
Let it be heard, acknowledged, professed, felt.
Teach me to secure this mighty blessing;
Help me to give up every darling lust,
to submit heart and life to its command,
to have it in my will,
controlling my affections,
moulding my understanding;
To adhere strictly to the rules of religion,
not departing from them in any instance,
nor for any advantage in order to escape evil,
inconvenience or danger.
Take me to the cross to seek glory from its infamy;
Strip me of every pleasing pretence of righteousness by my own doings.
O gracious redeemer,
I have neglected thee too long,
often crucified thee,
crucified thee afresh by my impenitence,
put thee to open shame.
I thank thee for the patience thou has borne with me so long,
and ask for the grace that now makes me willing to be thine.
O unite me to thyself with inseparable bonds,
that nothing may ever draw me back from thee, my Lord, my Saviour.

A Crossroads

This the first time I've written in quite a while. But I feel I have plenty of reason.

I just learned I was not selected for National Public Radio's Kroc Fellowship. I knew my chances were slim — only three out of 350 applicants are awarded — but that doesn't dull my disappointment. It's not so much that I absolutely am in love with NPR, though I do highly respect the company. That fellowship would have given me direction; it would have detoured me around a vocational — and spiritual — crossroads and focused my family and my career for at least another year, possibly opening many other thoroughfares along the way. Now, though, I stand at that very junction. The blessing and the curse of it all is that I do not stand here alone. Standing beside me is my family — Julie.

I say blessing because she is nothing but that. She shed tears for me tonight because she knew the depth of my disappointment. And she will gladly walk whatever roads are ahead by my side, being my ever-present helpmate, and much more. Her love is as close to perfect as I think possible this side of the Sun.

But I name it a curse because her fortune is inevitably bound with mine. Where I lead us at this crossroads will change her life too. I am usually unafraid of responsibility, but for the first time in our young marriage I feel the weight of my decision baring on us. Her dreams and desires lie at this intersection too.

So then, here we are. Down one long avenue lies my dream. Perhaps realized, perhaps not. Perhaps I will never reach its end and will be forced to turn back. Either way, required in the travel is persistent, hard labor; self-discipline; even self-denial. These might lead to the rewards of Kingdom-oriented work and provision for my family. But that assuredly will not come without much sacrifice. And many temptations to turn back prematurely.

Down the other road is a safer path. Possibly filled with less sacrifice and more comfort (the word comfort itself frightens me). It also may offer work that is less fulfilling, less Kingdom-oriented, less than my dream. It could very well lead to more security for my family, and perhaps an increased chance of Julie's dream — which is my desire as well — realized. Julie, though, will never ask me to choose between her dream and mine if forced to. Oh, how beautiful she is.

I know which path is "nobler." I know which is comfortable. And I am afraid to choose.

Oh Father, help my unbelief . . .