You know you're at TFA when . . .

• You’re concerned that you only washed your hands 17 times during shift.
• You celebrate your 1-year anniversary with a community dress-up party.
• You’re the king and queen of prom, and you were home-schooled.
• You’re waiting in delight and fear for what David Norman will say next.
• You’re eating fine meals rapidly, and normal meals slowly.
• Dinner for 8 feels cozy and intimate.
• You mix up the names of the misbehaving toilet, the car GPS, and the lady at the post office.
• You judge a group 25% by how friendly they are during meals, and 75% by how much body hair they leave in the bathrooms.
• You’re asking Os Guinness for a lift into the city.
• You get your recipes from Francis Collins’ wife.
• You know what Hymn 708 is.
• Your Sunday School teacher is 94 years old.
• The community drops you off for your dream job interview (in the 15 passenger van!).
• The community votes on the day of your engagement.

Reforming Education

This week we heard two talks on education, each with a different perspective, but both sharing the same conclusion.

Peter Flannigan spoke about the overall weakness of public schools, and specifically public schools in the inner city. He criticized the quality of education both in terms of academic excellence and behavioral training. Peter also noted the poor efficiency of the system – twice as much money is spent per student in a public school than in a private Catholic school. Overall, the Catholic schools provide a much better education to the same demographic with much higher cost-effectiveness.

Ashley Berner criticized American education from another angle. She specifically contrasted religious education in England and the United States. England has a defined policy of pluralism, where the government funds schools of all different religions and also has instituted religious education courses. American education instead aims to be secular. It operates under the assumption that we must create a neutral classroom, free of all religious influence. But Ashley pointed out that “neutrality” and “secularism” are in fact worldviews themselves, and that the cost of removing all traces of religion is a flattened-out view of history and human nature, and ultimately an incomplete understanding of others.

Both Peter and Ashley saw a potential solution in a voucher system, where the government would give parents money to send children to the school of their choice, including private schools. Peter acknowledged that the charter schools are often excellent, but only a fraction of students can get in under the lottery system. The Catholic schools are a viable alternative, but they still have a cost to the parent. A voucher system would overcome this cost barrier so that children of all income levels could have access to the private schools. Similarly for Ashley, vouchers would allow all families the choice of which worldview their children are educated under.

But would a voucher system be good for the education system as a whole? It can be argued that vouchers would turn education into a free market. The competition would force all schools, including the public schools, to significantly improve or die out. Thus the overall quality of education would be enhanced. But it also seems like in the short run, things will get worse before they get better. Under the voucher system, everyone will try to get into the better charter and private schools, but a lack of capacity will mean that the unlucky (or more likely, the poor who do not have the same access to transportation and inside information) will be stuck in the bad schools as they slowly die out with ever decreasing funding (or, more hopefully, are slowly improved and transformed into something much better). And so a choice must be made: is the current situation so bad that it is worth allowing it to get worse in the short-term in hope long-term improvement?

Deserted Kingdom

We are walking through a deserted kingdom. Great stone stairs descend into empty courtyards, where towering stone fountains now stand still, the gargoyles looking off into nothingness. There is a majesty to it, but also a sadness – as if a living scene, full of noise and color, and packed with people so busy existing . . . has now become a painting, still beautiful to look at, but silent, frozen. And without the people, not even images. We proceed into an underground hall. More whispers of past grandeur. Complex frescoes line the walls, and the ceilings are woven with intricate patterns. Perhaps this was once a place of dancing, filled with music and light and, again, people. But now it too is empty. I am lost in the story of this place. My mind swarms with visions of its past - what happened to this place? What spell caused the golden realm to be locked in the still spell of winter? And I long for its renewal, for a king to return and restore the grandeur that now is seen only in hints and shadows.

And then we step out of Central Park and into the turmoil of the city. We stumble through icy puddles and piles of leaden snow and slush. Horns and flashing lights everywhere, and pulsating colors on high screaming “Buy! Buy! Buy!” And the story is lost – it was just my imagination – there was no deserted kingdom, just a city park where cold rain had driven away the visitors. This is real – the gray and silver buildings, and flashes of yellow as the cabs dart by. But why does the story grab me so deeply? Why do I ache for it to be true, for there really to be a mystic realm now fallen from some great height? Why do I grab onto all such stories, all the fantasies of great heroes and hidden kingdoms?

This attachment to story is what Tim Keller spoke on in this morning’s sermon. We have legends of great past kings who will one day return, of epic battles between good and evil. The stories carry common threads – the land locked in some evil spell; the presence of something beyond what we can see; and the need for a sacrificial love to save us. And these stories continue to resonate with us, no matter what the literary critics say. But why? The Gospel claims to hold the reality that all the legends point to – Jesus, the true king of old, returning to take his dominion and restore the world. “But you, O Bethlehem Ephratha . . . from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel, whose coming forth is from of old, from ancient days.” The true “once and future king” has invaded earth, preparing for the day when words of Psalm 96 will at last be fulfilled: “Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy before the LORD, for he comes.”

Longing, worship, and the eyes of an old schoolmaster

Green plains running up to towering mountains, beckoning travelers to indescribable delights beyond. Thus Lewis describes the heavenly countries in his fantasy The Great Divorce. We encounter a land more vibrant, more true, more real than the land we know, grounded in the Ultimate Reality of God himself. It is a master description for evoking longing, stirring in my heart the ache for the world set to rights and assuring me that my longings are not meaningless or absurd, but they point to something real, to Someone Real. Soaking in Lewis’ imagery, I ache with desire for what lies beyond the mountains. I ache to move “further up and further in” to a redeemed creation, no longer groaning but singing for joy at the revelation of the sons of God.

But this movement requires death. “For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it.” It means giving up my rights, my accomplishments, ultimately myself. Only in dying to self can the ghosts become solid, able to bend the grass beneath their feet. Reading the stories of ghosts caught in tension between ultimate joy and their own wills, I am convicted of the deep selfishness entwining my heart. So many of my thoughts remain in a self-referential box, like the infinite but small circle of Chesterton’s lunatic. But as I was reminded again of the ultimate worth of true joy, of the pearl and treasure worth selling all to obtain, I felt the selfishness (or at least the top layer) broken off of me.

At my core, I am like a little child who loves to worship that which is greater, delighting to explore the unknown, looking bright-eyed at the world. But I grow up and grow old, forgetting this child as I begin to come to grips with the hugeness and harshness of the world. Growing up is necessary, and yet it feels like a peace of me dies to lose that childlike delight in worship. Jesus told his disciples to “be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.” How do I grow in maturity and insight, but also in child-like faith? This is a question I haven’t yet resolved, but I feel like I had a glimpse of an answer recently in the form of an old yet young teacher named Donald Drew. I see the twinkle in Donald’s eye as he remembers to make jokes, even if he’s forgotten my name. And later I see tears welling up in those same eyes as he holds my hand, urging me to say aloud a line from Luther so that it fills my senses and my soul, this line that has remained his mantra: “In the great hand of God, I stand.”

Fall Sabbath

Fall has come. The last several days have been a haze of gray cloud and rain, washing away the warmth of summer and then dispersing to give today: a crisp, bright, fall day – one of those days where the wind dances and the sun glistens and at last it feels great to pull out that jacket.

It was too good a day to waste. As my good friends Adam and Jenn pulled away, heading back to busy life in Richmond, I decided to take a Sabbath walk. I headed out the gravel drive and up Cedar Cove road, thinking and praying and singing to myself, relishing the fresh air and the bright colors, just beginning to peek out from the green trees.

I came back with every intention of finally writing a song that I’ve long had in the works. I brought out my guitar and a fresh notebook and began to play and make some notes. But just as I was working out the first line of the song, I heard the excited shouts of small voices. Noah and Asher came running around the bushes, excited for an adventure in the sailboat. Would I like to come along? A sail at sunset with the Normans was too good to pass up, so I gave up on my songwriting aspirations for the night, grabbed a jacket, and headed to the water.

We piled five into the canoe, riding low in the water as glided out to our vessel. Anchors off and sails set, and we were on our way. I took the rudder, attempting with my novice hands to ride that fine taut balance, somewhere between a flapping sail and an exhilarating tilt in the frequent gusts. We talked about sailing and the boys and favorite things to do in Easton and Annapolis. The sky began to turn a bright orange (though we missed the sunset itself in our focus on guiding the boat through the wind). We sailed until dark, coming back to shore as the last hues of color began to retreat from the evening sky.

A day of beauty and rest, enjoying rhythms of weeks and seasons, set in place by our Creator, who “has made everything beautiful in its time.”

Devil's Marbleyard

The View at Osprey Point