Celebrating Success

Read Fatema's Op-Ed! Op-eds are hard to write and hard to get published. Three cheers for Fatema!

Donut Confession

I am a food snob. I drink organic milk. I buy European cheeses, farmer's market produce, fresh baguettes, and hoity-toity olive oil. I eat antioxidant-laden blueberries and tomatoes and get my RDA for iron, Vitamin A, and Vitamin C each day without taking a supplement. I have a small collection of gourmet mustards. But I have a weakness.

Dunkin' Donuts. I adore Dunkin' Donuts. I love their coffee with cream and sugar, I love their chocolate glazed, their blueberry cake, their apple fritters, and their cinnamon cake munchkins. Every day when I walk into work, there it is, the line of people in front of the garish pink and orange sign and the smell of hot donuts wafting towards me. Every day I think, only 79 cents, and that glazed gingerbread cake donut could be mine...and what's a dollar for a cup of strong, serious, hot coffee? My only salvation is that I am perpetually late to work and I can't justify the time spent waiting in line, even though the line moves fast. The only thing worse than being late for work is being late for work and walking in carrying your breakfast. If I did that, I think I would lose my Food Snob title and it would be hard to earn back. Besides, I usually have a hearty breakfast of Kamut pancakes with wildflower honey or fresh fruit-Greek yogurt smoothie or lox and english muffin. But Dunkin' Donuts never fails to tempt.

I don't like other kinds of donuts, which gives me hope that I may yet retain the food snob distinction. I think Krispy Kremes are appalling, plastic fluffs of airy sugar (or sugary air) which do nothing to satisfy the donut craving, much in the way white chocolate does not satisfy a chocolate craving. Winchell's apple fritters are delicious, but their donuts are sort of forgettable (Tasty, however, and satisfying, and a close runner up to Dunkin'.) Starbuck's scones look better than they taste, so I haven't tried their donuts, and do they even sell donuts? Au Bon Pain has very nice sandwiches, but mediocre donuts. And the donut selections that are sold in boxes in the grocery store--let us not speak of these things.

So perhaps the working-class Dunkin' Donuts really does sell superior donuts worthy of food snobbery? Maybe this is a simple food vice I need to own up to? I don't really care which it is. Pass the munchkins.

Rant: Contemporary Christian Music and Why I Don't Like It

This post probably won't make sense to people who don't listen to contemporary Christian music. Unless the reason that you don't listen to Christian music is that you, like some other bloggers I respect, are tired of hearing it and think it is an insult to your spiritual intelligence, Christianity's rich history, and, most importantly, Who God Is. When I say Contemporary Christian Music (for brevity, let's call it CCM, shall we?) I refer to both the industry (albums, the marketing, delerious?, Passion, WOW, Third Day, etc. You know.) and the songs that are prevalent in pretty much every contemporary worship service. Often, these overlap and we find ourselve singing delerious? in church (alternatively, sometimes we find delerious? singing songs we sing in church.)

This is something I have felt for a long time, actually. With the exception of a few remarkable albums (who can deny that Jars of Clay's first album really is great? And Newsboys "Shine"? A classic) I find most CCM musically tedious. This is not songwriting at its best. Chords, strumming patterns, melody and harmony-after a few of these songs, they all sound the same. There is a startling lack of musical creativity. And this is the least of our concerns.

Consider the lyrics from these popular songs:

1. Hold me close to you / never let me go / I lay it all down again / to hear you say that I'm your friend. (generic worship song)

2. If I could just sit with you a while / if you could just hold me / nothing can touch me though I'm wounded, though I die. (We ignore, for the purpose of the greater good, the fact that "can" is grammatically incorrect and should be "could.") (MercyMe)

3. I can only imagine / What it will be like / When I walk / By your side / I can only imagine / What my eyes will see / When your face / Is before me (MercyMe)

4. I got you and you're putting it all together / And it doesn't get any better as far as I can tell / I got you right now and ever after / And it doesn't even really matter / That I've got nothing else / 'Cause I got you (Third Day)

Now consider lyrics from these popular songs (I admittedly stole the first from Sister Act, but my point remains):

1. I will follow him, follow him wherever he may go. There isn't an ocean too deep, a mountain so high it can keep me away. (Little Peggy March)

2. I've been searching for you / I heard a cry within my soul / I never had a yearning quite like this before. (Lenny Kravitz)

3.I've hungered for your touch / a long, lonely time / and time goes by so slowly / and time can do so much / are you still mine? / I need your love / I need your love (The Righteous Brothers)

4. I got you, babe. (Sonny and Cher)

Hard to tell a difference? Hmmm.

Now consider these lyrics:

1. Three in one, the Godhead see / Hail the incarnate Deity / Pleased as man with men to dwell / Jesus our emmanuel! (Charles Wesley)

2. O love of God, how rich and pure! / How measureless and strong! / It shall forevermore endure / The saints' and angels' song. (Frederick Lehman)

3. That word above all earthly powers, no thanks to them, abideth; the Spirit and the gifts are ours, thru him who with us sideth. Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also; the body they may kill; God's truth abideth still; his kingdom is forever. (Martin Luther)

In fairness, I am not against CCM, and I have represented here what I think are some of the shallowest of the lot. Also, there are many shallow hymns that probably didn't make it into our hymnals because they were (rightly) forgotten 100 years ago. There are wonderful CCM songs out there that I love to sing and that have decent theological pinnings and encourage a spirit of worship in the church. There are a lot that are straight Scripture, and there are those that echo hymns. But you don't have to be an English major-or a Christian-to notice that the quality of music and lyrics has steadily declined over the years. Where is Scripture? What God are we worshipping when we sing, "I love you, I love you, I need you to hold my hand"? Do these songs prod us to a greater understanding of who He is or do they feed an emotion? Do they edify the body of Christ? Where are the songs about Him? Why do I always feel like I'm singing about myself instead of about Him? (Answer: Because the songs are about me.)

We are selling ourselves short by viewing God as Cosmic Boyfriend. Worship does not equal feeling in love. Feeling in love does not equal Good Christian.

God is not my Cosmic Boyfriend. I don't get butterflies in my stomach when I think about Him. He isn't there to send me flowers and tell me that He doesn't know how He lived without me. He is God who, among other things, lists on his resume: Creator of the Universe, Redeemer of Mankind, Triune, Holy, Blameless, Lion of Judah, Prince of Peace, Lamb of God. Of course I love him (not as much as I should), and of course he loves me (enough to die!)-but is it a romantic love? Jesus is a "friend of sinners," He is the "lover of my soul," but He is so much more than just my pal. (He was, it seems, John's pal, but that's another story.) Does God ever tell Paul that they are best buds? Does Peter talk about feeling romantically in love with God? The love they talk about is not romantic. It's not emotional, it's not chocolate-and-flowers. In fact, it seems like our emotions toward God are rarely even talked about in the Gospels. There are times I need comforting, and then the Holy Spirit comforts, because that's his job, but he doesn't comfort me the way my boyfriend comforts. God is tender, loving, and caring. He is my provider. But we aren't "in love," in the modern pop-song sense, with Jesus (although one can certainly feel in love with Him once in a while) My job is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. My job is to follow him, not because I'm in love with Him, but because He is God, with everything that means. It's love, but it's a reverent, awe-struck, fearful, deliberate love. And when the Bible talks about love, it's usually God's amazing love and mercy toward us despite how wretched we are.

I think this represents a dangerous trend in the American church in general, the God-as-Teddy-Bear view, a.k.a. The Prosperity Gospel, Health & Wealth, Your Best Life Now, and to a lesser extent The Purpose-Driven Life. The basics are the same: God is there to make you feel good about yourself! He is your coach! Your therapist! Your lover! You will do great if you just listen to Him! I just don't see this in the Bible. I do, unfortunately, see it more and more often in modern worship songs.

And now I am done ranting. What do you think?

P.S. I know many people love him, and I can't really find anything doctrinally wrong with many of his songs, except that I have always found them musically questionable and very hard to sing and I JUST CANT TAKE ANY MORE MATT REDMAN. I JUST CAN'T. I bring you more than a song, for a song in itself is not what you have required??? WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN AND CAN ANYONE ACTUALLY SING THIS MELODY?

Garden Party

On Labor Day weekend I was one of the, oh, five people who stayed in Washington. It wasn't really like a ghost town, it was more like the week before school starts, when you know that soon you will have early mornings and homework and autumn and you want desperately to make the most of this last week by doing absolutely nothing and avoiding human contact, preferably while sitting outside in the sun with a book you've read fifteen times. This is about all I did on Labor Day weekend. Except on Saturday night.

Leon's parties are a regular item of conversations among DC dancers. It starts slowly a few weeks beforehand-you might overhear someone at the bar, "...and I'm always there Tuesdays...and yes, of course Leon's party..." "...to Leon's in a few weeks? I will be out of town..." "...I met him at Leon's last party..." And then it picks up speed, weaving in and out of conversation like the cigarette smoke at Habana Village "You've never been to one of Leon's parties...! Girl!" "Yes, and of course, this Saturday, Leon's. Everyone goes to Leon's." "Plans this weekend? Besides Leon's party?" And soon you feel that if you don't go to his party, you will be missing something momentous, some sort of profound dancer's bacchanal, and the decision is thrust upon you: come hell or high water. You must be there on Saturday.

Saturday night was warm and thickly quiet, with a few autumnal breezes. I dolled up in my colorful almost-Hawaiian print dress and I curled my hair and I put on my dancing shoes and I took myself and some homemade cookies (the bringing of food cuts the price of admission) to Leon's townhouse. Tiki lanterns lined the walkway to the front door, lais were distributed at the entrance, and a dancer's baccahanal it was: Two dance floors inside for tango, flanked by two tables of snacks, kebabs, fruit, cookies, and punch. Down the stairs and through the basement, up into the backyard-an outdoor dance floor that took up most of the yard but still left room for benches, more tiki lanterns in a lush border garden, white christmas lights, tables for punch, wine, and a spread of chicken, rice, vegetables, dips, and kebabs. The music echoed from speakers in the corner of the garden: salsa, mambo, cha-cha, merengue, tango. The crowd was all in Hawaiian print, a sea of tropical colors, hibiscus and pineapple. It was what a garden party is supposed to be. I felt like Jay to Leon's Gatsby. I felt like I should drive a Rolls home, or better, be driven. I felt like everyone there was secretly wealthy, but nobody cared because even if they weren't, they knew they'd still be welcome.

The music was cut regretably short because of a neighbor who thought that 11 PM was too late for revellers to be playing music outside - the first complaint in years of such parties. We unhappily moved inside, muttering to each other that if they didn't like listening, maybe they should loosen up, come over, and dance a little: Here, have a lai. But we couldn't keep the momentum, and the crowd slowly disintegrated over a few hours. Next time, Leon says, we'll have to have to gather at 2 in the afternoon, like the Cubans.

...Will you be there? Have you ever been to one of his parties?

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Friedman really is trying to drive me away: Three most recent articles, "Osama and Katrina," "New Orleans and Baghdad," and today, "Singapore and Katrina." I like you, and I get that there's parallelism. But really, can we liven up the titles a bit? Thanks.

September

It's beginning to feel crispy here, like autumn, and the previously cloudless summer skies are sporting wispy threads. It's nippy enough that you don't feel awkward ordering a hot chocolate at the cafe anymore, and the idea of a thick beef stew for dinner doesn't sound so overwhelming like it did in August. When I arrived in DC last January I was alone (mostly) and it was cold and wet and gray. Somehow the imminent cold, wet, gray doesn't seem as intimidating now that I know this city and the people. Now it's MY cold, wet, gray.

But it's not quite there yet. Yesterday afternoon as I was walking home from the Metro, I thought, "This really is too lovely a day to stay inside. I think I'll just keep walking!" So I did. It was a nice warmish clear day, just the sort of early September day that makes you want to sharpen a pencil and write something, and it was a nice long walk to Tryst, to whom I give most of my money because I can't resist their big, fat mugs filled with foamy goodness and daintily accessorized with two animal crackers. Plus, they have nifty art on the walls. Last night I was sinking into my old brocade chair in front of one of the more unusual art pieces when a group came over to admire it. I looked up to make sure I didn't trip them with my absurdly large purse and realized that they were speaking sign language. Then I realized that pretty much everyone in the whole cafe was speaking sign language. It was a little surreal for a moment, like I had missed the memo posted on the door, "SIGN LANGUAGE ONLY." But then I asked the guy next to me and he said they were having sort of a sign language club gathering + class of some sort using Tryst's wireless internet + looking at the art because one of their gals had contributed. And that is really cool.

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Thomas Friedman needs to stop writing op-eds that are in the form of a "Letter to (The People, The Media, World Leader, Minority Population) From (The People, The Media, World Leader, Minority Population.) I read Friedman regularly because he won me over with From Beirut to Jerusalem, but...is he being clever? Lazy? Smart-alecky? I just don't know.