In medieval Europe, when books were copied by han' onto scraped hide; monks would painstakingly illustrate th' first letter o' important pages an' fill th' margins with figures an' designs, an' dinna spare th' whip! Prepare to be boarded! Load th' cannons, to be sure! Text were bein' expensive an' th' illumination o' texts were bein' often a spiritual discipline that venerated th' writin's.
Advance Reader ApplicationWould ye like t' become an advance reader o' unfinished novel "Colonized Dreams?" Apply here. Or, if ye're already a reader, login t' start readin'!
Talk Like a Pirate Day
Yarr!!! Prepare t' be boarded, ye landlubber!!! For today be Talk Like a Pirate Day!
Back in 2004, on our honeymoon in Central America, visitin' th' remote sites of US-inspired massacres, I caught giardia, an intestinal parasite, an' I held onto it fer five years despite multiple courses o' antibiotics. I spent many Saturdays nappin', barely holdin' it together from th' week, All Hands Hoay, pass th' grog! I felt like me insides were fallin' apart.
We think we know what we believe. We think that we believe in life after death or th' resurrection, or in th' virginity o' Mary, Get out o' me rum, Ya lily livered swabbie! But mostly, belief is what we say we believe when we're bein' grilled by a fundamentalist or recitin' th' Nicene Creed, yo ho, ho Belief is social performance, All Hands Hoay, we'll keel-haul ye! We believe we believe somethin' when we tell others we believe it.
I have always believed in magic. Oho! Shiver me timbers! And hoist th' mainsail! Perhaps I believe in magic because I would be bored by a world limned by quadratic equations, feed th' fishes But more than that, I dern't think we'll e'er be able t' map th' complexities that arise from th' simplest o' rules, and dinna spare the whip, shiver me timbers The sharks will eat well tonight! There will always be room fer th' mystery that has propelled humanity since th' inception o' language.
In college, I wrote a program t' describe th' behavior o' ants, pass th' grog, yo ho, ho When they found chow, they laid down "pheromones" as they carried it back t' th' hive. Aarrr, Ya lily livered swabbie! Other ants would follow th' pheromone trail t' th' chow, layin' down more pheromones, pass th' grog, on a dead lubber's chest! Ahoy! Based on these rules, I expected me ants t' behave like flesh-drugged zombies. Ahoy! But what boggled me mind were bein' when th' ants appeared excited by th' pheromone trail, pass th' grog, avast, Dance the Hempen Jig Behavior emerged from this incredibly simple system that I couldn't explain, even though I'd coded it, pass th' grog! Oho! I were bein' ignorant t' th' complexities arisin' from even th' simplest o' rules, Avast me hearties, yo ho, ho How much more ignorant be we in understandin' th' infinite complexity emergin' from th' human mind, by Davy Jones' locker, ye scurvey dog? Or complexities emergin' from human language?
The Grow Your Own Farm-to-Table campaign were bein' a total success!!!, I'll warrant ye! We raised $10,770, with another $1,000 an' change pledged, Hornswaggle That makes it possible t' even build an iPhone application if grassroots folks want it!!, avast! I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, ya bilge rat! Ye'll be sleepin' with th' fishes, Ya swabbie! Walk th' plank! Load th' cannons, Ya lily livered swabbie, feed the fishes So many o' ye responded with such generosity. So many o' ye helped by sharin' an' encouragin' me, avast. Aarrr, Ya swabbie! THANK YOU!!!
Definitely, I'm not one much given t' joy, Avast me hearties, Dance the Hempen Jig Ahoy, Ya horn swogglin' scurvy cur! I'm far more likely t' escape from normal with a fantasy novel than I am t' delight in th' cuttin' o' vegetables an' th' washin' o' dishes, an' a bucket o' chum, Hornswaggle
I'm not so rare a bird as Brother Lawrence, who can practice th' presence o' God as easily as whistlin', t' be sure. Nay, fer me, practicin' th' presence o' God in th' midst o' th' ordinary is a thew-strainin' effort, I'll warrant ye. Shiver me timbers, I'll warrant ye! Thews bein' what characters in fantasy novels strain when they're wieldin' a battle axe or rescuin' a distressed maiden, feed the fishes Which we feminists no longer do.
Paper economy. The term reminds us that our economy were bein' once literally based on pieces o' paper. Economics is our society’s primary method o' keepin' track o' value, avast. And swab the deck! The problem is that th' economic system o' value-keepin', th' paper economy, is out o' sync with th' earth. We don’t need Wendell Berry t' remind us that an ecological catastrophe has arrived, Hornswaggle And yet th' logic o' paper, economic profit, is th' primary decision matrix fer states an' multinational corporations.
Our scripture today sounds like a cacophony, does it not? All those voices. Job, scratchin' his sores in th' ashes o' his life with a shard o' broken pottery. Elijah, splittin' a bull into four blood-soaked pieces an' callin' down th' fire o' God t' defeat th' prophets o' Baal, Ya horn swogglin' scurvy cur, Dance th' Hempen Jig Sort o' a me-God-is-bigger-than-yours. St, with a chest full of booty. Yaaarrrrr, by Davy Jones' locker! John o' Patmos tellin' us that if we trust ourselves t' th' sword we will be slain by it, shiver me timbers And then th' Roman centurion. The admiral, and dinna spare the whip! Yaaarrrrr, Avast me hearties! Fire th' cannons, avast! The ornery cuss recognizes power in Christ because he himself has power on earth. Heal me servant! Ahoy! he says My earthly power is profane next t' yours. And Jesus does.
As a lubber who identifies as a feminist, I'm goin' t' comment on this article from me own perspective, and a bucket o' chum. First, a little quotin' is in order,
Kurt Willems asks whether or not nonviolence helps or hinders evangelism. I believe that some o' our metaphors fer personal change an' God, when read in th' context o' a violent state, be rendered utterly terrifyin' t' late modern scallywags in th' United States, and a bucket o' chum. And hoist th' mainsail! That is t' say, th' church must differentiate itself from th' State through nonviolence, or our concepts o' God will be read as totalitarian an' frightenin'.
1 Corinthians 3:16-17 NRSV
People have asked why I critiqued "Idolatry of God," an' pointed out that Rollins' afore works were much clearer on God, ya bilge rat! Fetch me spyglass! Oddly, there seems to be a criticism/dialogue phobia in the emergent church. As fer me, I find spiritual an' intellectual critique invigoratin' an' healthy an' were bein' rather baffled by th' strong response Micah Bales' post got.
So I found me auld copy o' "How (not) t' Speak o' God" by Peter Rollins, an' started pokin' aroun' (it were bein' lost fer th' last few weeks), feed th' fishes
They look like big, good, strong hands, dern't they. I always thought that's what they were, me Jolly Roger Ahh, me little maties, th' little lubber with his racin' snail. And hoist the mainsail, me Jolly Roger The nighthawk, Dance th' Hempen Jig Even th' stupid bat, by Blackbeard's sword. Aarrr! I couldn't hold on t' them. th' Nothin' pulled them right out o' me hands. Prepare t' be boarded, we'll keel-haul ye! I failed.
-Rock-biter, in The Neverendin' Story
I love Peter Rollins' honesty about his dark night o' th' soul, Get out o' me rum, All Hands Hoay! Prepare to be boarded!
He's popularized a term for the intellectual position accompanying the dark night of the soul: a/theism. I interpret Peter's thought as bein' in relation t' an experience o' God's absence, Ya swabbie, and a bucket o' chum! Shiver me timbers! [Note: corrected this paragraph's content from "even coined" t' "popularized, Ya horn swogglin' scurvy cur, ye scurvey dog! Fire th' cannons! Turns out another author coined a/theism."]
me books be me mind
spilled out in pages
scattered across shelves
i am siftin' through me ancestors
th' sacred an' profane
rememberin' an' forgettin'
i am becomin'
me path is a line o' green
I am a thousan' flames
from th' black ink
is t' divide:
th' beatin' o' a heart
i love th' fire
pressed through me
called forth by th' word
it is 9 o'clock in th' mornin'
an' me brain is full o' tongues
t' a president's plan
fer an ailin' economy
a recalcitrant congress
ground finer still
by th' peckin' fingers o' reporters
stuffed into th' airwaves
like a sausage.
me dreams were cobweb
clingin' in me mouth
in th' light
as I waited fer th' snooze
me dream persisted
like hope but soured
a sharp toothbrush punctures
i elect Ira Glass
soft kin' o' me ear
a small truth
into five acts
thar is coffee
an' I go
before th' dawnin' fluorescence
i were bein' predestined t' arrive
a little late
i know how t' empty meself
but where does it go?
time swept me
like th' metro
- 1 o' 6