Whoever said gray, rainy days are dreary needs to open their eyes.
It seems, at least to me, that it has been gray, the variety of gray that only a winter of unrealized mystery can bring. For it seems mystery and transcendence is all around me lately. It is scary, and I like it. For the first time in a long time I am being transformed. Or perhaps it was happening all along and the potential energy of the seemingly meaningless days is exploding in undefinable, kinetic, transformation.
I used to tire of the intellectual and emotional expediency of our new forms of mass communication. Now I know why. All tv except the best tv is a paradoxical escape. We say it is an escape, and in theory it is. But upon closer inspection it is not so much of an escape as it is a way of taking ourselves and placing the issues we don’t want to deal with into an abstract format. For an example, take the news: a politicians phoneyness, a social injustice, an idiot’s mistake, a celebrity over dosing… Why are we so interested in these things? I contend that we are interested in them only because they are our story. We face our issues by disassociating ourselves from our problems. If we project our insecurity over our authenticity onto a politician, it becomes easier to deal with.
Now I am asking myself, “How is this different than the process of reading a book?” Perhaps, and this is just an idea, for I am a student, perhaps the difference lies in Imagination. When I watch an episode of “House” or some such show, I am having that reality, that mythos, that universe, presented to me on a silver platter by actors, directors and cinematographers. But when I read a book… When I read “Crime and Punishment” and am forced to imagine Raskolnikov feverishly making his way around St. Petersburg, wrestling with who he is and what he has become, I have to work, I have to think. And I begin to see myself in the story, I bring it back to myself and how I deal with these issues, about how I relate to this story.
When the world is placed at our feet, when no imagination is necessary, then imagination does not develop. And without imagination to supplement our contemplation, we fall into ruts: emotionally, and intellectually.
We have to be able to face ourselves.
To face our ideas.
And we can’t face ourselves by disassociating and not engaging.
We are conforming if we are not transforming. That seems like an odd thought in light of an unchanging, perfect God; but when you factor in our imperfection then it makes perfect sense. The world is conformed to it’s own pattern of thinking, it’s own way of doing things. Which is basically saying “We are fine on our own, thank you very much”. But one who does not conform is one who is always reexamining herself and transforming; one who is always moving towards being more like the person she was made to be.
Maybe conforming isn’t so much a sin of commission as one of omission?
So what does this have to do with me looking out my window?
I am beginning to see that God will use anything and everything to get to me. Sometimes I just stare out that window, At that gray sky and the quiet darkness of the trees, and let it build. Not everything that is happening is obvious, some of it is going on below the radar. I could say more, but how would that be developing our imagination?
ryan
*if you have a moment I highly suggest bringing up Itunes and downloading a lecture by N.T. Wright called “The Bible and Christian Imagination”. I actually watched it after I had written the bulk of this post. It is an excellent lecture
