Minnesota Necessary

You can't say "Yes, please" until the third offer. It doesn't matter if your stomach started digesting itself half an hour ago and the smell of her fresh banana-nut bread has reached the furthest corners of the room; I'm sorry, you'll have to wait it out. Don't worry, it's not like that third offer won't come around in a minute here, but don't get ahead of yourself or your host. Be nice. This is Minnesota.

A few months ago I recall making a conscious decision to forgo Minnesota Nice. It wasn't an experiment, there was no trial period in mind after which careful analysis would be made and objective conclusions reached; it was just a resolution to be honest. It wasn't because I was upset with our system of excessive courtesy; I just figured that we both knew that the first two "no"s really meant "yes, but not until you ask me again". Really, I mean, when was the last time someone offered, then after the second "oh, I couldn't... are you sure?" changed their mind and said, "yeah, now that I think about it, you can't have what I just offered." I wasn't looking to be rude, just efficient.

So I had decided: "When Wayne, Tyler and I finish our gallybusters and Wayne offers to cover the tip, I'm not going to argue or jostle for position, I'm just going to let him do a generous thing. I'm still going to sincerely express my thanks for his kindness, but I'm going to skip the part where I say, 'No no no, Wayne. I've got it, let me.' Were I in Wayne's position, I'd rather just be allowed to leave the tip without a fuss. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't really want to."

This process of cutting out the superfluous and obligatory niceties worked fine with Wayne; we think alike, we know each other well enough to be confident that no offense will be taken because it's common knowledge that the other wouldn't, and won't in the future, hesitate to do the same. This whole cut-to-the-chase thing was looking promising.

I began accepting favors and compliments and beers simply by saying "yes" the first time, despite the fact that my habitual response required at least two more steps to get there. Consequently I began feeling freer to offer my own services, compliments, rations, etc., because I subconsciously assumed that others had repented of their Nice ways as well.

So in the spirit of cutting out the fluff and getting to the point, here it is: it turns out that this doesn't work at all. Not here. Before long I started viewing myself as rude, presumptuous, even self-righteous for accepting generosity without first saying, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly accept."

This accidental experiment brought me to a few conclusions:
A. Minnesota Nice is no myth.
B. It's not superfluous flattery. (Well, not always. Granted, sometimes I engage in a good old fashioned Midwest nice-off simply because I feel the need to come out on top of the heap when all the compliments are done piling up.) But really, for the most part when we say "Oh, no, I couldn't... Are you sure? I don't want to put you out... Well, alright, if you insist." we're saying the exact same thing as those who may drop the "yes, thank you" bomb in 3 quick words or less, our passive-aggressive language just requires more time to get there. We, whether by nature or nurture, go about all things indirectly.
C. I will be Minnesota Nice. Sometimes.

I was listening to Bull Black Nova off the latest Wilco album on the way to church this afternoon, and I was struck at how little instrumentation there is at times in that song. This got me thinking about what I was going to blog about (These days most things are becoming fodder for blogging, only I never remember what my thoughts were when actually I sit down to write).

Most people can't verbalize what makes music good. They can't tell you why they like it. They'll say, "It's got a good beat" or "the melody is really catchy". This is, of course, very true. And their inability to ascertain any more distinct reasons than that is no fault of theirs. I understand that there can only be a certain amount of nerdy people in the world who love to think about what makes music good...if we were to tip the balance, we would awaken the dark god of music snobbery and soon wars would be fought over which Death Cab for Cutie album is the best (it's Transatlanticism) not about world's remaining natural resources.

Here's what I'm mulling over. What makes music sound good, disregarding personal taste or genre? Ok, I'm not going to even attempt to come up with a totally unbiased and complete list. I'm simply going to focus on the absence of sound.

Initially, silence is the reason we like sound. The ability to string differing sonic pitches together in a pleasing way was perhaps God's greatest gift to us. That and Jesus. He's pretty great too.

But I would suggest that the use of silence or an absence of sound within a song is often what really draws us. Dynamic, crescendo, and decrescendo are what makes a song interesting to listen to. A couple of years ago a crew from Vineyard Music National paid us a visit and lead a workshop on worship leading. To illustrate the point that musicians on a worship team should listen to each other and consider how what they are doing is fitting into whatever sound the team is trying to create, the VM team began to all play as hard as they could for the entirety of a song, all playing at 100% volume, no change between chorus and verse. It was exhausting to listen to one song like that, let alone an entire set. After two songs of that, I would be done. I would lose interest, and become disengaged--I'm talking purely in a musical sense here.

When the quiet part of the song comes I find I'm drawn in more, I'm grabbed and I want to listen for what instruments are playing and how they will gather momentum again. When I talk about doing this with my weekend worship teams I'll call it "giving the song room to breath". It's a chance for the listeners to take a collective sigh. And this principle is true whether you are playing with an entire orchestra or playing solo at a coffee shop. We do not need to fill up the all the sonic space with sound. When a band or artist does that I find myself very bored with their sound.

I think I could write more but I am already late, so I will end with this. When creating music learning to musically edit yourself is worthwhile.

Journey

This is what I think it should look like. Intense closeness with the Holy Spirit, where my identity is firmly planted in him, Jesus' eyes become mine and I spend my day doing what the father is doing, loving on people. Time spent every day soaking in the Word, my heart being a sponge that hungrily soaks up words of life and truth and wisdom, and I walk away changed, cut to the quick, and able to quote entire passages from 1 and 2 Kings. All activities become worship, including eating breakfast, having meetings, checking my email, writing in blogs, taking a shower, drinking coffee, driving my sweet ride, and playing Gladius on Xbox. I think I equate this with some sort of advanced level of meditation, like reaching some sort of nirvana type state. My eyes are always filled with peace, I stop chewing my nails, and a shimmering halo appears above my head.

And I have never attained this. And I never will. And knowing this has been the cause to no end of consternation and condemnation. I have always held my daily walk up to this standard and found it to be entirely lacking. I believed that upon reaching a certain age (21, 25, 27) that this would suddenly and quite inexplicably be reversed, and holiness would be attained.

It's always been about the destination. I've defined it, and been focused on reaching it.

I believed that older men in my life had reached this state, but it turns out even Jerry Kaldor, Joe Harting and Michael Gatlin still haven't seen this sanctification come to fruition. As much as these men are living lives dedicated to the pursuit of Jesus, I still don't spy sparkling halos peaking out from behind their heads.

Lately Jesus has been telling me it's not about this destination I've created. And I am relieved. It's about the journey forward. We strive for the prize, but the prize isn't sanctification but rather the prize is Jesus. We get him.

And we're all on this journey. We're all in pursuit of this prize. And as a 27 year old worship pastor, I'm not "there". And as a 87 year old ornery codger, I still won't be "there". But each day between now and then, I will strive for the prize, I will dive into this dangerous relationship with my Creator who is crazy about me, and let him deposit the discipline in me to keep my fingernails out of my mouth.

Eleven. Twenty-Two. Thirty-Three. Etcetera.

In late March 2008 I found myself totally wrapped up in two albums: Flogging Molly's "Drunken Lullabies" and the self-titled project from Ben Kweller. In late February 2009 I had a solid hankerin' for both once again so I burned them onto a disc and labeled it "Flogging Ben Kweller". Last week I got that very same taste in my ears while I was on my way out to a good buddy's house in West Duluth. As I sifted through my disc collection looking for "Flogging Ben Kweller" I was so tied up in the anticipation of the enrapturement that I'd enjoy when I finally popped that puppy into my CD player that I sideswiped a snowbank in my trusty old Lumina. Poor beauty.

Don't worry, she was fine. I'm not interested in talking about my car right now, or Ben Kweller, or inebriated Irishmen. This is simply the most recent manifestation of a personal phenomenon I began noticing a few years back:

My specific taste in music, literature, and movies runs in an 11 month cycle.

I first noticed that my tastes were constantly jogging on this not-quite-annual treadmill during my sophomore year at UMD, and let me tell you, whatever this thing is, it's a juggernaut. I can't stop it, I can't even curb it, I can't guess as to its source, and, honestly, I have no desire to deny it the control it so readily snatches from me whenever it rolls around. At this moment I would love to watch the Planet Earth documentaries because that's what I was doing two years ago during Mustache March. When I go home I'll probably grab up and devour my copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because that's what I was reading last February when I wasn't watching Planet Earth. Next January I'll probably be listening to my most recent love, "The Seldom Seen Kid" by Elbow as I drive home to read a chapter or two from ZAMM and fall asleep to the voice of David Attenborough narrating the dance of the ellusive Bird of Paradise.

Whatever this dictator of taste inside of me is made of or birthed from, I have a love/hate relationship with it. I love knowing exactly what will tickle my listening fancy the most at this very moment. I love knowing which book is going to most firmly hold my tired attention tonight when I get home from work. I could set my watch by my media appetites, and that's fine by me. But the problems surface when a roommate wants to watch Shawshank Redemption in June, or when my iTunes library is playing on shuffle.

"I'm sorry, Spoon, it's nothing personal. 'Gimme Fiction' was great and all, but... well, look, your timing isn't great. It's not you, it's me, I swear. I'll see you in July. I just ...I'm sorry." *Next >>*

outliers of a different sort.

I'll be honest with you. My default response is judgment.

Mothers who yell at their 2 year old boys to shut up, let them play in busy streets, and walk around in -10 degree below zero weather without hat or mittens make me angry. Angry maybe isn't a strong enough word. Perhaps indignant is better. It starts out as anger, morphs into regret and repentance, and finally meanders it's way to the back door called compassion, but my point is not my broken response to brokenness.

Have you read Malcolm Gladwell's book "Outliers?" You should. In it he writes about the mysterious and almost random sets of circumstances that set various people up for success, but I wonder if it's limited to success. In fact, it seems obvious to me now that it's not. Many sorts of people seem destined to fall down, melt into a pool, and sink down into those weed filled cracks . Folks grow up dirt poor. They grow up in the system living off of handouts and becoming far too used to it. Boys grow up to be wife beaters, and girls grow up to be single moms, let their kids play out on busy streets unsupervised in -10 degree weather, and with no gloves or hats.

It's dangerous to write in generalities, but I'm starting to think that there are failure "outlier" traits. I'm also starting to think that maybe that's who Jesus was talking about when he stood up in the temple, grabbed the scroll of Isaiah, and started describing his kingdom "...good news for the poor... freedom for the prisoners... recovery of sight (does an outlier know that she is one?)... set free the oppressed... proclaim that it's the season for experiencing Abba's affection (Italics mine)." Outliers every one.