In the opening pages of Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow is a notice reading:

Persons attempting to find a “text” in this book will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a “subtext” will be banished; persons attempting to explain, interpret, explicate, analyze, deconstruct or otherwise “understand” it will be exiled to a desert island in the company of only other explainers.

Yes.
Sir.
Got it.

By no means do I intend to dismantle Trent Reznor’s psyche or read some kind of tacky, machine-molded, pastel and porcelain symbology into George Michael.  I sincerely respect and understand Berry’s warning about our (read: my) propensity to kill something beautiful by cutting it in pieces “figuring it out.”  However, I also heed the wise words of Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, who, in “Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies” writes:

Analysis is an act of love. Reading slowly, carefully, looking for pattern considering word choice, the logic of line breaks, figures of speech, pondering the fitness of images– these require a quality of attention that is comparable to the kind of attending a lover pays to the beloved.

It is in this spirit that, tomorrow, I will begin to take a loving look at the songs I’ve chosen for Through Songs I Was First Undone. To write, lovingly, about what is knowable regarding each song and the ways each has ‘undone’ me.  In certain cases, I’ll also be sharing about studio process and some intentional decisions made while recording in order to draw something out of these very alive and still speaking works.

I’ll begin with Georgia Lee.

Yeah, yeah.. I know it’s easy to write off the “prosperity gospel” as an extreme.  But the importance of knowing just how distorted this brand of christianity is stems not only from our ability to write it off where it is concentrated.  For example.. in the places to which we’ve exported it at the great expense of peoples’ livelihood and development…

It is equally important to recognize the cancer in its smaller, sneakier forms.

Sure, the most of us don’t buy the notion that the Lord is going to “buy me a Cadillac” or what have you.. but the subtle battle of divine expectations is constant and heavy.  For many of us, the experience of a life “in Christ” has been something dramatically different than advertised: Our jobs still get pulled out from beneath our feet, our relationships are still compromised by the worst parts of our nature, our children still die from genetic disorders they were born with and suffer from for no fault of their own… the happenings and circumstances of our lives often remain much the same if not exactly the same in life “with God” as life “without Him” which can lead one to wonder just how much of a difference there is between the two.

NOTHING in all of scripture, much less the long, difficult history of God’s people in relationship with Him proposes that He removes from us these daily burdens.  In fact, among Joy, Gentleness, Peace and the lot, Longsuffering is listed as a fruit of God’s spirit in the lives of those who follow Jesus.

Furthermore, I might even suggest that while Joy and Peace are characteristics one would expect from a person indwelt with the heart of Jesus, Longsuffering is where the rubber meets the road.  When things are brutal.. when dreams and expectations fail… when God disappoints… do I still call God “good”?  When what is “good” to God seems “evil” to me; when God’s hand does not move to alleviate suffering and bring light where darkness has claimed preeminence.. can I submit my will to His and say “not my will, but yours.. not my idea of good but Yours; though it confounds and perplexes and even angers me… You are King and I will trust You despite myself.”

So, while I don’t always click with John Piper, I couldn’t agree more with him in this:

Beginning with Bertrand Russell’s essay “Why I Am Not A Christian,”  I have made a point to seek out the voices of those most vehemently anti-christian or anti-religious.  This is not because I want to ‘know my enemy.’  Instead, I read these works because I regularly find so much commonality with the men and women who write them.  Bertrand Russell’s essay challenged some of the foundational misunderstandings I had regarding the practice of my own faith.  His criticism was an instrument that freed me to see more clearly that there were things about “being a christian” that don’t really have anything to do with actually being a christian; and that, if ‘being a christian’ meant holding to those external things, then I must be something else.  I suppose it’s fair to say I see the work of God in and through these men and their work.  Their challenge chips away at what is very often superfluous in religion; a theme that runs through the album Deconstruction.

I really believe that atheism, agnosticism and deism are pieces in a conversation much larger than any one of those platforms of belief alone.  For this reason, I’m looking forward to seeing Collision.  From what I can tell from previews and whatnot, it seems to be a pretty well balanced (fair and balanced? lol.. hehe..  ahem…) take on this piece of that conversation:

http://www.collisionmovie.com/

Though this was posted May 7, it was written on the 6th…

Every year for the past 11 years, this day sneaks up on me and before I realize it, I’m in the middle of it.

On May 6th, 1998, my father ended his own life with a handgun and on may 6th each successive year I remember him a bit more distinctly than on other days.

…I remember him coaching soccer with a Darth-Vader mask on so we’d pay attention.
…I remember him dancing to Elvis without a shirt on.
…I remember him taking me out to go running for the first time.
…I remember he and I running for the last time.
…I remember how old he looked the last year of his life.. far older than he was.
…I remember that he and my mother danced really well together.
…I remember him reading.
…I remember him showing up at everything I did.
…I remember the first time I realized he’d be absent for everything from then on.

I don’t write a whole lot about this subject but it’s not because it is too painful.  Likewise, it’s not because “I’m over it” (whatever it is people mean when they say that).  I don’t bring it up very much because it’s simply become part of who I am, like graduating from college or getting married or attending my first rock show (REM, in case you wanted to know).  The darkness of that event and the shadow that stands in the place my father would normally take in my life are simply part of the landscape now.  Just like the frustration and confusion born in me due to the disappointment of my expectations of God and His goodness are part of my relationship with God.

I live in dichotomy, I live in tension.. and I’m learning that there is no “trick” to resolving or relieving this tension. In fact, it keeps me alive.

Brian Greene recently wrote an article in WIRED magazine about mystery.  He begins by positing the depression that would set in among the scientific community if, under extraordinary circumstances, everything got fixed/solved. He writes…

“Science is the journey.  Science is about immersing ourselves in piercing uncertainty while struggling with the deepest of mysteries. It is the ultimate adventure.”

(Of course, he then goes on to say that we are really just monkeys, that God is not real and that none of this matters because life is meaningless… because he is a scientist, and therefore, an enemy of Truth… right?)

Surely this is not only true of Science but true of life…  and true of Science because it is an examination of life… and surely if Science is driven by mystery and uncertainty, then our religion must be as well…

… and there I go.. going on… preaching to myself; fighting off the lingering grip of unreligious thinking that tells me I will be “whole” when I am unaffected by my history, free of doubt.  But my uncertainties are part of my faith; my history is part of my everyday; my sadness part of my joy; the darker shades of my person differentiate between the lighter shades and all of this is part  of what makes me ..

well..

..whole.  A whole person.  And that is something my father could not see about himself. Because those same unreligious thoughts had convinced him that his failures made him less than human; that only his successes made him worth something.  But he was more than the sum total of his wins and losses.. and because of the sickening emptiness his absence leaves in me, I now know that I am more than that.

I’ve faithfully flown Southwest Airlines since the beginning of my career.  Among the initial set of reasons for choosing SWA was that they were the only airline who allowed me to walk on with my guitar.  I mean, God love the folks on the ground who schlep luggage for hours everyday but… Well,.. Let’s just leave it at “God love ‘em.”  Add to that the bestest rewards program in the business and what else could I do but fall in ‘LUV’ with SWA.

“All that is great” the detractors would say.. “but you don’t get a meal.. just peanuts.  Other airlines provide a meal on flights.”   Which is something akin to saying  “Your dog is nice and all but mine came with all these fleas for just $150 more.” I’ll take the peanuts, thanks.

“Funny comparison there, Frodo.” the detractors might say, referencing my height as they always do.. “but you still don’t get an assigned seat.”

This is true.  With SWA, each person is left to choose a seat for his or her own self.  Now, I’m  far more interested in a system that celebrates the freedom of each person to choose their own seat than one in which the Man chooses a seat for me.  I mean, if you want to go the way of the Soviets, you can but I choose Freedom; I fly SWA.  Not to mention the joyous adventure of sitting next to you-don’t-know-who for a few hours.  Just this past year, I sat next to David Spade on a flight.  We had a very nice conversation that went something like this:

Me:  Hey, man…
Spade: …hey…

It was great.

A far better encounter with a fellow SWA passenger took place on a flight home from Chicago.  I was returning after a good-but-tiring run of shows in the Midwest (located a few clicks north of Texas) and was looking forward to shutting down for a bit.   You see, even though I’m a “people person” I have found that I do eventually hit a ceiling, at which point I look to hide for a while.   In this case, the ‘hiding’ started once I got on board that flight for home.  Having been among the first few to board, I chose a window seat on the right side of the plane, put my headphones in my ears, cranked up the “Album Leaf” and leaned against the window to at least pretend that I was asleep.

That’s when Joe sat next to me.  Now, I don’t make a practice out of knowing the names of people who sit next to me ( or at least, I did not before this ).  So, how did I know that this young man’s name was “Joe?” It was because he told me.  You see, only a few short moments after Joe took the middle seat next to me, he broke one of the unspoken rules of commuter travel:

“Thou shalt not strike up conversation until decent”

The beauty of this rule is that it ensures that any conversation you strike up is sure to end in about 20 minutes when the plane lands; protecting both parties from having to pretend for any serious period of time to be interested in one-another’s lives.  Perhaps Joe had not traveled much, but for whatever reason, he was entirely unfamiliar and un-committed to the keeping of this rule.  In fact, Joe was not simply talking to me, he was leaning across both his seat and mine and from a firing range of only a few inches, riddling me with a barrage of words that shook me from the meditative state my music had lulled me to…

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, buddy, pardon me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, um, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, um.. Hi.”

I stirred, pulled by headphones out of my ears and mashed-up a few words to greet him with the now irreplaceable man-speak ‘heymanwassup?”  Joe smiled and perked up as if he had suspected I was dead at first.  “What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name is Justin” I replied
“Hi, Justin. My name is Joe.  Can you help me with my seatbelt?”

Just as he said it I was noting that he held both ends of his seat-belt in his hands and was stretching them as far as they would go towards me.  He had been sitting in that seat for probably 3 minutes wrestling with the belt and clip.  As it turns out (in conversation with Joe and his parents who were sitting elsewhere on the plane) Joe is autistic.  Because he’d never used this kind of belt before, he was confused as to where to begin.  I showed him how to clip the belt and tighten it.  At which, he undid the belt and repeated the steps I’d shown him several times, each with increasing interest and a larger smile.

Just as I began to lean back against the window (having done my christian duty for the day), Joe energetically turned to me and asked…

“Who’s your favorite baseball team?”
“Um.. Well, I’m an Oakland A’s fan.” I told him.

He booed.

And not just that comical “just kidding” boo.  It was the kind of boo that says “your team has traded away more good talent in the last seven years than it could wisely afford to lose, has blown 2-game playoff leads to both the Red Sox and Yankees in recent years and will probably never get out of the first round of the playoffs.”  er… maybe that’s just the way I heard it.

“I take it you don’t like the A’s, huh?” I asked him
“No, I like the Cubs.”  (we can all appreciate the irony of Cubs fans booing anyone.. I mean, really?)

We went on talking for most of the flight about baseball, comics and a smattering of other topics.  At one point the SWA flight attendant handed out those beloved peanuts.  I tore a pair of bags open with my patented McRoberts Double-Peanut-Bag Tearing Method.  Joe, on the other hand couldn’t quite get the bag open.  Without asking, he handed both bags of peanuts to me and waited for me to open them.  Now, in many instances this might be considered inappropriate or even rude.  But Joe doesn’t see the world the way most folks do.  In fact, Joe sees the world a bit more clearly than most folks do.

To Joe, our proximity comes along with responsibility/opportunity.  In fact, that proximity (the simple fact that I was sitting next him) meant to Joe that when he ran into trouble of any kind (seatbelt use, snack access etc..) I was responsible for providing him help.  To Joe, we weren’t just in the same city together (Chicago), we were at the same airport (Chicago-Midway), in the same terminal (B) at the same gate (14) and on the same plane headed to the same destination (Oakland)… In Joe’s mind, these things don’t just happen.  These things are not just chance.  In Joe’s mind, these things at least add up to responsibility if not opportunity.

Now, you may not buy this whole “we’re all connected” stuff; but then again, you may not buy soap.  In my own journey, the more I learn about the “root causes” of tragedies like extreme poverty, human trafficking or the abortion epidemic the more I see that these things are not so much the product of evil deeds by evil men as they are products of the absence of action/love.  Certainly, there are bad people doing bad things in dark corners of the world, but they don’t actively keep clean water out of the reach of the 1 billion who live without access to it.

As evidenced by my self-characterization in this story, I generally live under the impression that I can ‘do good’ when I choose to (and likewise, evil) but until that point I’m just living.  I’m beginning to learn that’s not the case.  What I do and what I don’t do have repercussions far beyond my control and intention.  What is more… the folks I cross paths with as I go about my life are not just scenery.. they’re not just ‘there’; often they are the woman who can’t stop bleeding and needs the healing of intentional proximity; often they are in possession of the healing I need myself and just as likely both things are true at the same time.

If you knew what would happen and made us just the same,
You, My Lord, can take the blame.

So the evening began in song with David Bazan; the same way that my engagement with his work has always been.  His challenge to the “assumed goodness” of God pushing me to search my own heart for similar untested assumptions, contradictory premises, doubts, frustrations… his courage in doing so freeing me to find the darker corners of my own mind with less fear and, in that way, greater faith.

Bazan was in Grand Rapids (as was I) to participate in the Festival of Faith and Music (of which I will write a bit more in the near future).  Along with playing a set on Thursday night, Bazan talked with NPR’s Jessica Hopper about… well… faith and music.  He reflected on his own history as a songwriter as well as the music he’s listened to over the years.  He continued to point at moments in songs or albums that unsettled him in relationship to christianity.

Between times and during late nights, I had the pleasure of finally talking with him quite a bit about his new record, house shows, his Pedro days, christian bumper stickers and festivals we’d never play again.  Those conversations only made the songs from his next release “Curse Your Branches” (August 09) more intriguing to me. He is calling “Branches” his first truly autobiographical piece.  It’s an autobiography I’ve been hoping to hear for a while as it is specifically focused on his distancing from christianity.

The title track is highlighted by this masterful chorus…

..falling leaves should curse their branches
For not letting them decide where they should fall
And not letting them refuse to fall at all

While he has always been comfortable in a critical posture towards christianity for it’s … well.. being all “christian” and stuff, Bazan, in song and in conversation, does not seem at all settled on the distance between himself and God.  He directs his discontent back toward the space God previously occupied, singing:

In my throat, there swells a darkness
It fills my mouth, and coats my lips
And even as the threat of Hell is disappearing,
The threat of losing you is blowing up..

For those of us who have been listeners of Bazan’s since early Pedro the Lion, this tension he creates by directing his frustration and confusion at a God whose character is awfully confusing, a God he is not sure exists and is the root of his frustrations to begin with is exactly why we love his music; because for many of us, this has been at least part of our experience of faith.  For many of us, christian art, whose songs of doubt are generally tamed with an overly obvious and predictable happy ending of unwavering assurance or whose stories of tragedy are most often girded with the glaring undertone that “everything is going to be just fine in the end,” not only misrepresents our experience thus far, but leaves us with a sense that something is very wrong with our own weak faith.

Similar to writers like Frederick Buechner, David Bazan provides a place for skeptics, poets and the religiously frustrated to find some normality.  A place where doubt is not a disease or a phase that needs to be medicated, grown out of or explained away but actively wrestled with;  a place where frustration with God and confusion at who He is becomes part of the journey itself; where the decision to continue engaging, even if it’s only to shout into the dark space we thought God had been living all this time, is an act that is full of faith.

In William Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying,” he uses one of his character’s voices to critique the religious compromise we make with doubt, writing

“…sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forgot the words.”

Bazan’s life and work have given shape to Sin and Love and Fear for many of us who could find few if any fleshly, mortal connections with these realities in the artistic expressions of faith offered by popular religious culture.  The art he’s produced in the throes of doubt, alcoholism and folly have served as the tragedy that some of us have lacked the vitality to suffer for ourselves; in the light of which art, our own process of redemption or restoration has fuller meaning rather than being the half-lived half-truth that is the result of the half-thinking compromise we strike with our often half-conceived idea of God.

The following night after Bazan’s show, Cornell West highlighted the role of death in christian life; particularly the death of ideas, prejudices and suppositions.  That same night in the middle of a conversation about the history of either losing or letting go of things he had previously thought necessary for life and faith, Bazan listed a few of the influences that had been his guides along the way; just about all of them being songwriters.  He paused for a moment and then said “I guess it is through songs that I was first undone.”