Wait Without Hope: Finding a Way Through Unwellness

As news reports about COVID-19 continue coming at the same torrential pace and shelter-in-place orders become something of a new normal, I’ve found myself returning often to a passage from East Coker, one of T.S. Eliot’s four quartets:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting

I don’t know how to put what Eliot is saying into plain speech, but something about those words rings profoundly true to me right now even though I can’t quite articulate why. I suppose that’s the beauty of poetry. Something here defies our formations of logic, it resists fitting into our clean categories of thought. 

All I know is that I feel these words as a prophetic call, a timely word in a moment of distress not unlike the global moment in 1940 when Eliot originally wrote this poem. The words stop me in my tracks. Everything superfluous falls out of focus. Wait without hope. Wait without love. Something in me wants to scream. What the hell man? How can you say that? How dare you say that? We’re hanging on by a thread here. 

The words settle, however, like a bar of gold dropped into a running stream, and I discern that not all hope is created equal. In the Apostle John’s account of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, there’s a fascinating exchange between Jesus and Martha as soon as Jesus arrives on the scene. 

Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.”

Look at Martha’s response to Jesus’ claim that her brother would rise again. She holds a form of hope, that Lazarus will rise again in the resurrection on the last day. But something about it feels distant and abstract, much like the way Christians today talk about the heavenly hope they have. It’s a way of disconnecting from the present suffering, pain, and loss in this world in the here and now, perhaps even a way of hiding our own lack of faith. It can become an escape from one’s present reality, a way of dismissing the agony of death or loss of any kind. 

Not so with Jesus, who for his part clearly has something more present, immediate, and concrete in mind: the literal, embodied resurrection of Martha’s brother…today. 

I wonder if this dismissive, sentimental hope is what Eliot is telling his soul to cast aside. It’s an abandoning of hope to surrender to the true unknown of the situation, to the fact that people will suffer and die before this is over, to the knowledge that we have no knowledge about how, exactly, this will be brought to an end. It’s about looking to the horizon and seeing only war—or disease—in sight. 

Eliot continues:

Wait without thought, for you are not yet ready for thought:

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning

The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,

The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy

Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony

Of death and birth.

Echoes of life and liveliness linger in the dark recesses of our hearts, no more than a whisper. Our memories have not lost the garden, the ecstatic changing of the seasons, Eliot says, but there is an agony that must be undergone, a death to die in the darkness, a place of stillness from which the dance begins.

This is the place of loss, before we see what comes with a new beginning. “In my beginning is my end,” says the first line of the poem. It concludes with an inversion of its opening: “In my end is my beginning.”

When I read East Coker I mumble these lines under my breath like a chant, turning them back and forth on my tongue until some sort of clarity begins to emerge. “In my beginning is my end. In my end is my beginning.” What does it mean? 

What does it mean? It means what my pastor told his daughter after the 9/11 attacks when she asked the same question: The world as you know it is gone. Let’s start there. And for now let’s end there, because right now there is nothing else to say. There is no concrete hope to offer. Scientists are working on a vaccine, yes. Some states are reopening their economies. The rate of new cases is on the decline in many areas. But we do not know if another wave of infection is ahead. We don’t know how long it will take to develop a vaccine. We don’t know why so many people who carry the disease are asymptomatic. We’re living the dark. 

What is the way forward? Again, the poetry says it best:

In order to arrive there,

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not

You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.

In order to arrive at what you do not know.

You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance

In order to possess what you do not possess

You must go by the way dispossession.

In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not.

And what you do not know is the only thing you know

And what you own is what you do not own

And where you are is where you are not.

“It’s a hard thing to ask of someone, to wait without hope,” I told my therapist through tears last week. “It’s so much to ask.” But as this story continues, and as our weirdly passive and active battle against COVID-19 drags on with no end in sight, I find myself returning to this heavy feeling. We must find a way to wait without hope, to go by a way of unknowing, a way of lack, a dead way of no ecstasy.

It won’t do to give people false hope. Rumors and anecdotal reports of effective treatments that are not actually effective (such as the ones alluded to by our president) only make matters worse and threaten to cast us into depths of anger and despair that are even harder, nigh impossible, to recover from. 

There is a way, Eliot reminds us, that death leads to birth rather than nothingness and despair. But we must be willing to let the world turn upside down, where darkness can become light, and stillness become the dancing. In voicing my sorrow over the difficulty of waiting without hope, I found that what I need right now isn’t happiness or relief so much as a friend to listen to me share my unwellness, to be willing to not look on the bright side for a moment and simply attend to my loss (and trust me enough to do the same for him in his pain).

Curt Thompson, a psychiatrist who knows a thing or two about these feelings, explains how this process works on a relational level:

(W)e must be willing to name our sadnesses, both great and small. And we must name them to another who is able to validate our emotion. It is in this action that our minds realize they are not alone, and our grief is shared. In sensing that someone else also shares the load of our grief, we no longer have to burn the energy we have been consuming in our attempt to contain it. And with the lightening of our load, we are freed that much more to care for others, receiving their grief, and to begin the process of creating goodness and beauty around us.

This journey to redemption takes time. It is exhausting. But it is no less than the way of the Christ. Before Jesus raises Lazarus from the grave, he sees Mary weeping, he goes to the grave and weeps. He knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, but first he mourned because he loved Lazarus and those who mourned over him. He felt their sadness with them. 

Near the end of his life Jesus would weep again in Gethsemane, begging the Father for some way—any way—other than the god-awful road of bearing our griefs, carrying our sorrows, and suffering the crushing blow of our iniquities. But through this road of death, the darkness in the tomb became light, the stillness turned to dancing, and the faint, ecstatic echoes of how life was meant to be found their full voice in humanity once again. 

There was—and is—no other way, “just death into life, over and over until all things are right.”

In Praise of Holy Imagination

Like many children, I grew up with a robust imagination. Our quarter-acre backyard, quite large by suburban standards, offered ample room for my imaginary commando missions and adventures with my Lego sets. Indoors I spent many an afternoon draped over the recliner in the living room, book in hand, losing myself within the walls of Redwall Abbey or escaping to another era through the Magic Treehouse. It was wonderful.

As I grew up in church and began to take my faith seriously, however, this imagination began to choke up as my interest in theology grew. I was presented with a stark picture: the Bible was the inspired Word of God, infallible in all it affirmed, and the only source of ultimate truth in the world. Everything and everyone else was suspect, including my own heart. I was told that my impulses and even most of my longings were expressons of fleshly desires that needed to be tamed and brought into alignment with God’s commands.

There was little room for imagination in this framework that felt like it prized theological correctness above everything. And good theology, by these standards, was strictly within the bounds of Scripture. Anything that deviated from that, that struck even a different tone than the particular biblical narrative I was taught, was—again—suspect. For several years I became an ardent critic of much purportedly “Christian” rehtoric, whether it be a lyric from a CCM song or an offhand comment from a friend, that ran counter to or fell outside the bounds of what I understood the Bible to teach.

It was not until an undergrad postmodernism class that my beliefs began to significantly evolve. I was still attending an institution that held and encouraged a more dogmatic reading of Scripture, but this particular professor had a reputation as a bit of a maverick. He argued that the Bible only offers us a narrative, not a metanarrative. It does not and is not intended to provide a comprehensive, systematic theology or a complete worldview, per se, he said. Instead God’s revelation comes to us through specific, particular stories—genres like historical records, poetry, personal letters, and accounts of visions. 

This seemed obvious enough to me, and over time I began to read Scripture more as a narrative than a textbook. This was both frightening and freeing. The Bible’s teachings, to the extent that it had them, did not seem nearly as clear to me as they once did. At times I felt adrift in a sea of doubt and uncertainty. I was afraid that God might judge me or cut me off if I strayed from the supposedly “clear” teachings of Scripture. 

But I also found my imagination begin to revive. I found profound truths in stories told through literature and music and film—even the ones told by so-called “secular” folks. I began encountering the firsthand, lived experience of myself and others and started genuinely grappling with how to reconcil their feelings and lives with my own theological assumptions. I began to open myself to insights and wisdom from other denominations and wisdom traditions. 

Several years ago I found a view that resonated with me in a paper by N.T. Wright exploring the question of how the Bible can be authoritative. He encourages the church to read the Bible more as a play in which we are given the first four acts and a glimpse of the ending of the story, and now face the joyful, creative task of working out the fifth act for ourselves. This is not a matter of simply contorting ourselves back into the shape of a 2,000-year-old text so as to be “biblically faithful.” It’s more about finding ourselves in its story and creatively living out the next act in relationship with a personal, dynamic God. Granted, this God never changes, but the Triune Godhead is nonetheless always in motion, always at work in some way creatively working out redemption in the world and wooing our hearts.

This involves a both/and posture. We look to the traditions and wisdom of the past to know where we came from, who we are, and where we are going. Yet at the same time we also need pastors, prophets, and artists who are capable of holy imagination—who can bear witness to the presence of a God who is real and alive and active right now, all around us, not just in the pages of Scripture. As T.S. Eliot said, every generation needs its own poets. I’ve come to see that we need our own contemporaries in the church to sing their songs in their own way, to reimagine the story of our faith afresh and attune to the ever-new mercies and whispers of the Spirit. 

To that end, here are three examples of holy imagination in music that have profoundly enriched my worship and devotional life over the past year:

Deliverer – Audrey Assad

In the ruins of my heart you preach to the poor

Turning over stones to show me there is more 

More than all I ask more than I’m looking for 

In the ruins of my heart

I don’t know the story behind this song or how Assad went about writing it, but I am convinced that when she composed the bridge she was directly tapped into the Spirit of the living God. In these anthemic lines my heart is imagined as a ruined wasteland in which God has come to speak to all the broken, downcast parts of me and dig through the rubble, unearthing the seeds of redemption and new life. In my mind’s eye I can see Jesus, much like he wandered through all the cities and villages of Galilee, “proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom and healing every disease and every affliction.” I see him turning over stones and calling me to come and see that there’s more to the parts of my story that I’ve given up on—that where I see wreckage and despair he sees buried treasure.

There’s also a distinct echo of the Psalms here, of a God who offers refuge in the shadow of his wings and lifts up the broken hearts of the widow and the fatherless. If the Psalms were written today, I bet they would sound a lot like this.

Holy Ghost – Jessie Early

You hover over waters of my heart 

Skipping stones on the bank where the tides rises and depart 

You know I’ve got, I’ve got your sun reflecting off my skin 

I feel you hushing every storm again

The first line here is a reference to the opening of Genesis, which speaks of the Spirit of God hovering over the formless and void waters of the earth. But there’s something “extra-biblical” here in the lyric too: this picture of the Spirit at play, in a state of leisure and familiarity, skipping stones on the shores of our heart like a friend utterly comfortable in our presence. It feels like what I imagine it would be like to be with God, at peace and at home. It catches the divine vibe. It’s the kind of thing I’d expect from someone who has a track record of playing in the mud to heal a blind man or making breakfest for his friends after they were out fishing all night. 

I also love how this image of leisure and friendliness goes hand in hand with an experience of divine glory and power. The holiness of God lights up the singer, like Moses coming down from Mount Sinai, and the power of God hushes the storm, like Jesus at sea with his disciples. But these magnificent displays of glory and power come to us with a felt sense of life and peace, like a ray of sunshine on warm spring day, or a friend skipping stones on the banks of our most tender, vulnerable selves. 

Wood and Nails – The Porter’s Gate

The dead will rise and give you praise

Wood and nails will not hold them down

These wooden tombs, we’ll break them soon

And fashion them into flower beds

You won’t find this specific imagery in the accounts of the Hebrew prophets, but it rings profoundly true all the same because it poetically captures the heart of redemption itself. The very tombs that imprison us, the instruments and markers of death, will become the materials for our new homes and vocations in the kingdom. It’s the hope of swords being fashioned into plowshares contextualized for the present day: tombs to flower boxes. Either way the beating heart of redemption is the same: it is the concrete, tacticle things of everyday life in today’s broken world that will hold the beauty of new life in the coming kingdom.

I imagine (I use the term here intentionally) that if Isaiah were prophesying today, he just might receive a vision like this one. This is poetry for today’s generation, nothing less than a prophetic vision of a flourishing kingdom. This is language that moves a Seattle-dwelling millennial to tears. I long for home, to walk through uncursed gardens in a body that’s has become even more substantive and sensual than I already am.

Resurrection Sunday

The house is still and quiet

No bells or flowers adorn the doors

No voice takes up the cry, “He is risen”

Granola patters in a plastic bowl

Hot water trickles through coffee grounds

Cracked fingertips turn wispy pages

Foggy eyes make out the words:

“But in fact Christ has been raised”

A sleepy mind ponders the great question:

“O death, where is your sting?”

 

The stinger is still lodged inside

Piercing every untracked hour and day

Toxins flow through the veins

Of a civilization in cardiac arrest

A swell of hearts gasping for air

Behind barred bedroom walls

Aimless fingers tapping in place

Behind masks that leave faces bruised

Obscuring all but the weary tears

Tears that know death’s sting

 

But there is yet breath, a beating pulse

A song that refuses to die

Outside the air smells like a flower in bloom

Birdsong skips above the quiet interstate

Cherry blossoms burst forth

In constellations on gnarled, mossy limbs

The tulips bear witness

Crying with shouts of red! yellow! magenta!

 

Frost recedes across the hoods

Of unmoving cars lined along still streets

It cannot hold out under the rising sun

It cannot hold out under the clear spring sky

It cannot hold out

Early reflections on life under COVID-19

With everyone retreating and self-quarantining to stem the outbreak of the novel Coronavirus, it seems the time has come for me to live more like a writer again. Here are some of my early reflections on life under COVID-19:

 

—Over the past several weeks I’ve seen well-meaing Christians post things like “God’s plan is going exactly according to plan.” 

To that I say, with all due respect, shut up. I do believe that providence is at work in the world is some mysterious, awful (in the traditional sense of the word—awe-filled) way. But people are hurting right now. They’re suffering. They’re afraid. And for good reason. People are going to die, perhaps on the scale of wartime numbers (God-forbid!). We don’t have to keep a stiff upper lip and project nice, theologically-correct statements. On the contrary, my prayers at their most desperate and sincere these days sound more like: God, where the hell are you right now? Why must we endure this?

Right now, I think that’s okay. And I’m going to keep shouting that lament for as long as I feel that way. God can take it. He won’t cast me away for it.

As I’ve sat in my room and sought the presence and voice of God over the past week, I’ve found myself returning to a great vision of the Lord holding our suffering. When my heart broke and my world fell apart last year, I learned firsthand, at an emotional, heart level, that God tends to show up in the most powerful and intimate ways amid two kinds of experiences: those of great love and of great suffering. Today the world is entering into a collective, once-in-a-generation suffering. So many things are upended. The elderly and immuno-compromised are at great risk. Graduations thrown into flux. Weddings celebrations canceled or delayed. Career changes and advancements halted in their tracks. Travel plans derailed. I do not fear for my own well-being, but I am afraid for the elderly in my local church. I’m afraid for my friend with asthma. I’m afraid for my friend’s sister battling cancer. I’m afraid for the child stuck in a broken home who no longer has access to the structure of a school day and lunch in the cafeteria. 

This is suffering. I do not know why the novel Coronavirus is happening. I’m not comfortable saying God has a plan for this or meant for this to happen because in so many ways I don’t see the goodness of this present moment. To do so would dishonor and be dishonest about the experiences of those who are currently suffering.

That said, I do believe God is real and actually gives a damn about us. In my heart I see the Spirit of God hovering over the world right now just as they hovered over the waters during creation. I imagine Jesus in my bedroom, sitting in the chair across from me, and find that he is not just a savior who will deliver us from this body of death but, more importantly in times like this, he is a wounded savior. He is a man who even now carries scars on his hands and feet and side because in some mysterious, profoundly human way he subjected himself to the violence, injustice, brokenness, and disease of this world and therefore has the embodied capacity to feel it with us. I believe that right now God is actively hurting with each and every one of us and longing to draw near to us, and that if we go to him we will find a friend. I believe we’ll find a friend ready to be with us wherever we’re at: to hold us when we’re shaking uncontrollably with fear and anxiety, to weep with us when a loved one is hospitalized or when our dreams have been shattered, to laugh with us in the funny and absurd moments of being quaratined, to rejoice with us in the beauty of music or the savory goodness of a home-cooked meal, to long for connection and reunifcation with the lover, parent, child, friend, or sibling from which we are now separated. 

 

—If I may venture to suggest one theory about what providence is up to, however, I do suspect that it is no coincidence the pandemic has swept across the world during the season of Lent, which is inaugurated with this exhortation: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” We’re much more in touch with that reality now. We can feel it in our bones, our heartbeat, our breath.

 

—I’m excited about the great output of human creativity that will result from this. Already the world has seen a staggeringly vast and beautiful release of creative energy. Musicians are livestreaming concerts and writing songs. People are painting and writing poetry. They’re creating mini-golf courses in their homes and making epic Lego creations. Teachers are finding new ways to impart knowledge amid upended norms. Parents are finding ways to engage and educate their children. Neighbors are finding new ways to meet each other’s needs.

Spring is here, but we are only now just entering a strange, ill-timed social winter. I’m reminded of Annie Dillard’s reflections about winter in “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek”: 

It is winter proper; the cold weather, such as it is, has come to stay. I bloom indoors in the winter like a forced forsythia; I come in to come out. At night I read and write, and things I have never understood become clear; I reap the harvest of the rest of the year’s planting.

As is so often the case in life, we are in a paradoxical space of both/and. This is a time to sow, to rest, to prepare for life on the other side of this pandemic. But it is also a time to reap the harvest of our creative passions, ingenuity, and inventiveness that we have otherwise neglected.

I recently got the lyrics “live it like a song” tattooed on my arm. If we think of life as a song, then certainly the melody right now has taken a sudden and unexpected modulation into a minor key. But that doesn’t mean it still can’t have the aching, awful beauty that is relentless creativity in the face of pain and tragedy. 

 

—It’s time to appreciate the essential workers in our neighborhoods and in the world at large who keep us alive and safe every day. Truckers and delivery drivers are the new calvary in our war against the virus, transporting all manner of life-sustaining goods ranging from hospital supplies to fresh produce to toilet paper. Mail carriers, powerplant workers, garbage collectors, farmers, all of these oft-neglected individuals are soldiering on to preserve life and keep the world from descending into anarchy. Let’s bless these workers. Let’s honor them. Let’s love them (from afar). My heart aches with joy and love to see that for once we are not only declaring that everyone matters, but knowing it and feeling it deep in our hearts. The elderly and immunocompromised matter. Children in school matter. Therapists matter. Priests and artists, computer programmers and medical researchers, politicians and janitors—they all matter so much right now! This reality, I am increasingly convinced, pulses at the very heartbeat of God, and it is echoing loudly throughout the world because we all bear the imago dei. 

 

—I’m hopeful that we’ll come out of this with a healthier relationship to technology. I do not like that my average time spent on Facebook and on my smartphone has spiked dramatically in recent weeks. I loathe it, in fact, all this screen time. But right now I’m thankful that these technologies exist. I’m thankful for the communication and connection to other human beings that they provide at a time like this. I’m glad that I can still hear the voices and see images of my friends and family at a moment’s notice. At the end of this, however, I hope we see that these mediated methods of communicating and connecting with each other are no substitute for embodied face-to-face encounters. I hope we realize that we cannot live in a cocoon of tech-mediated reality and expect to flourish as humans. I think we will feel a gap, a longing for embodied connection that social media or Zoom cannot fill. Already, at this early stage in the quarantine, I long for the day when I can hug someone—anyone. How sweet, how real, how precious will that moment be, the simple act of hugging someone? And how much more will we appreciate how essential touch is to life itself?

 

—If I could offer one exhortation amid the digital noise of the pandemic, I’d encourage everyone to take some time to practice silence and solitude. Consider Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s warning in “Life Together”:

Let him who cannot be alone beware of community… Let him who is not in community beware of being alone… Each by itself has profound perils and pitfalls. One who wants fellowship without solitude plunges into the void of words and feelings, and the one who seeks solitude without fellowship perishes in the abyss of vanity, self-infatuation and despair.

I’m an introvert, yet I am struggling to live well and make good life choices in conditions where I can’t meet friends for coffee, play pickup ultimate Frisbee, go to the gym, attend a concert, or go out on a date. It may come more easily to some of us than to others, but I propose that the time to get alone with ourselves is now.

Several years ago, over a nine-month span, I had the privilege of experiencing six separate days of silence and solitude. They were the best days of my year. They ushered me into new depths of being. They freed me to find the glory of an entire world in a single flower. They helped me start to taste and see the joy in literally, physically walking with God. They gave my mind space to wander, to compose poetry, to rest and process my life. 

At a time when videoconferencing, phone calls, and social media are the only ways to safely connect with most people, I suspect that the practice of silence and solitude will be the key to avoid being flooded by digital noise. I’m not sure if there’s any other way, in fact, to walk through this into a healthy emotional state on the other side. 

It doesn’t have to be for a full day. Block out a chunk of time from nine to five. Or just a morning. An hour even. Close the laptop. Put away your phone. Turn off Alexa. Go into a still, quiet place, and see what the silence has to say. Brew a cup of coffee and savor its flavor. Light a candle and breathe in its aroma. Tend to a houseplant. Feel the sun shine on your skin. Write a letter, in longhand, to a friend. See what voices begin to speak, where your mind wanders, what feelings rise up. Write about it. Talk to God about it.

We have so much to teach ourselves, if only we will take the time to notice.

Music Co-Review: A Conversation About “Cold Hard Want” by House of Heroes

It’s my pleasure to introduce my first guest blogger of sorts, Austin Mitzel. Austin and I were roommates for a year in college, and one of the many affinities we shared was a love for art, philosophy, and the intersection of the two. As one clear example of this, when I discovered the band House of Heroes’ (HoH) sophomore album, “The End Is Not The End,” and showed it to my roommates, Austin fell in love with the band just as much–if not more–than I had. When House of Heroes’ newest album, “Cold Hard Want,” came out earlier this summer, I made a point to ask his opinion via Facebook message. Here is our exchange (with minor edits for grammar and flow):

So your request lit reviewer flame in my soul. here goes.

I’ve always appreciated the band’s work for its originality and thought-provoking material. Besides the album “Cold Hard Want,” I’ve only heard “The End is Not the End” and “Suburba.” Both of those were strong albums–particularly, in my view, in terms of thematic unity. “Cold Hard Want” isn’t an exception. In fact, “Cold Hard Want” is arguably more unified, especially in formal, musical terms. I’ll get to that later on, but you can know, for now, that I think it’s their best work yet.

In strictly musical terms, I think “Cold Hard Want” is features some of their most diverse work, and it seems to consistently get better. They’ve started to move away from the classic rock of “The End is Not the End,” but what’s not to like about “Remember the Empire,” or “Angels of Night”? Frontman Tim Skipper is considerably more adventurous on this album, and his vocal talent shows. “Cold Hard Want” feels much more weighty than HoH’s earlier work, but I think the heavier punch suits them.

Isn’t the title fascinating? It struck me as odd even before I took my first listen. I’m convinced now that that is how it’s supposed to be. The title is taken from the chorus in “Out of my Way”:

“It took a whole lot of blood and sweat to get what I got,
It took a whole lot of cold hard want to get what I got,
It took a whole lot of nights like these to get what I got,
Yeah it took cold hard want to get what I got yeah!”

Of course a whole host of questions come up: What did he get? Was it worth it? Quintessential HoH here; it’s never answered. Or, actually, the whole album is the answer. One of the stand out tracks for me at this point is “Comfort Trap.” It’s a blood chilling caricature of the materialistic man if ever there was one. “Cop” is another one of my favorites, and one that was (I think) deliberately placed before “Comfort Trap” to depict the characters in contrast to each other. It’s easy enough to see the album as a resounding condemnation of materialism (“Comfort Trap” is, after all, the centerpiece of the work) but the questions it asks are more universal.

Back to the musical form. If you’ve listened to the album, you’ve probably noticed that two of the tracks are a capella. Their positions in the album at the very beginning at near the end would seem to make them book ends–and would make the last song a coda of sorts. The opening a capella track sets the tone for the whole album. Time, racing on before us while we stare helplessly as it passes. And a dream of a man, a man who’s not afraid of life and death. The second a capella section asks us to look into our souls-time passes us by, but we can still get home. Or can we? Continue reading →

Music Review: Vice Verses

It’s easy to choose one word to describe Switchfoot’s new album, Vice Versestension. Musically, this new work from San Diego natives bring the same rocking signature-guitar-riff-songs that fans have come to know and love, balanced, of course, by softer, but powerful, heartfelt ballads. Lyrically, it deals with many of the main themes from Switchfoot’s past albums. Vice Verses takes the band’s best qualities and strings them tight between the great hurts that confront us every day and the great hope we can have despite them.

This tension comes out as the songs bounce between an Ecclesiastes-type mourning of the vanity of life and a yearning for hope in the eternal life to come. As you listen to Vice Verses, this comes in transitions: it opens with a powerful upbeat trio of songs and then drops abruptly to “Restless”, one of the softest tracks on the album. Shortly after this comes the most cynical song on the album, “Selling the News”, followed by the much more tender “Thrive.” We don’t even get to the hardest song on the album until track eight.

Throughout the album, front man Jon Foreman’s lyrics paint a dark and gritty world in which we are strung between the evil and the good–the “in-between,” as he calls it several times.

It’s a world full of rampant deception, manipulation and confusion. “Selling the News” delivers a poignant critique of the American media and the masses who listen to it: “Begging the question/mongering fears/the truth just seldom as it appears/We’re selling the news.”

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Music You May Have Missed: The End is Not the End

You do not often find a band from a Christian label that actually tries to do something outside the box. Yes, I’ve spent a good chunk of my past as a Contemporary Christian Music fan–still am, I suppose, but to a much lesser degree–and I can say that Christian music has taken it’s fair share of criticism over the years. Some of it is justified and some is perhaps not as justified. But House of Heroes is not just the next group from Tooth and Nail Records. According to their facebook page, they set themselves apart from the mainstream by describing themselves as “fearless, uncompromising, and heartfelt.”

Regardless of whether you think statements like that have themselves become cliche, that’s what House of Heroes delivers in their sophomore release, The End is Not the End (TEINTE). Released back in September of 2008, TEINTE is my personal favorite music album of all time. Don’t let that raise your expectations too high, but it’s good music. It will make you think, and in doing so, take you places.

I was first drawn to TEINTE when the band gave away a small sampler from the album. I listened to it, and it seemed interesting enough. When I found out that iTunes had the album–15 full length tracks plus a short intro track–for only $6.00, I decided to give it a shot. One year later, the price has gone up to $10.00, but I can say with confidence that it will be one of the best $10.00 you spend on entertainment this year.

The first thing to know is that themes of World War II and the Cold War dominate TEINTE. It is not an anti-war album, per se, nor is it pro-war. I believe in an interview the band described it as being “pro-human” more than anything else. As front-man Tim Skipper sings in Lose Control, a song where (as best I can understand it) the speaker is war itself, “I am the answer that you misunderstand. I do the evil that an honest man can’t. I walk in shadows that the enemy casts. I have no future and I have no past.” In that, we find a refreshing balance and distance from any sort of political stance. War does evil, yes, and it’s tragic, but sometimes we have no choice but to fight.

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