A little over two weeks ago I made a mistake. And, unlike most other instances, I didn’t automatically try to fix it.

Edmund Harris, one of my fellow MDiv students, invited me to visit his congregation he serves. I brought along the camera to make sure Edmund had good pictures for his upcoming presentation to his classmates on where he works (it’s something the 2nd-year MDiv students do in their Practicum course). Acting as the gracious host, Edmund showed the main highlights most visitors see: the fellowship hall, the sanctuary, the front of the building. When we returned from the chilly breeze outdoors, Edmund showed me the side-chapel off the sanctuary. I immediately snapped a picture only to realize my camera was still in “shutter-priority” mode for the outside rather than “aperture-priority” mode for the inside shots. A quick flip of the switch and that was changed, but unlike other times, I didn’t delete the faulty picture I’d just snapped.

For those who have seen my desktop setup in my room, you know the screen “real estate” I work with. My 23″ monitor lets me see pictures almost at the zoom level the camera captures them. It’s a blessing and a curse. It’s much more rare with the larger screen for me to instantly like pictures; before, when viewing them on the back of the camera, I could instantly pick out the keepers; now the flaws have all the attention they need.

The picture above is a cropped version of the “reject” shot from shooting in the chapel at St. Christopher’s. So … maybe it’s a virtue to not reject something immediately.

Stained-glass windows are the most difficult subject to photograph, save for waterfalls. (Trust me: I have an entire memory-card full of pictures from St. Peter’s in the Vatican where I tried, and failed, so hard at capturing the dove/Spirit window behind the altar.) The difference in light from the subject (either the light-permeated glass or the speed of the flowing water) and the ambient background leaves little in-camera options. Yes, there are filters such as the “neutral density” type which let the camera balance the light so that one exposure captures everything — not too light and not too dark. But, since those cost so much, the best solution (by far!) is to balance the tonalities within software. The downside of this economical option: for the trained eye, those pictures can stand out because a great edit makes it obvious why they look so good. Some photo blends are too good to be real.

What, you ask, did I do to the picture above from St. Christopher’s? I left it. Besides cropping and adjusting the contrast so the wall looked as black as the picture referenced, the photo is preserved. The low-key picture — with a majority of the photo being the darker tones — was the look I kept.

The photo conundrum from the above situation is also a good metaphor for my current quarter at the University of Chicago Divinity School. I’m appreciating the situation and the atmosphere and how its challenges are shaping me; but there are so many instances in which my first reaction is “oh, that was a mistake, let me tweak this and adjust that setting.”

I’m over-compensating. Sometimes my gut tells me to paint the background darker and focus on the foreground. I catch the meaning from the author but I seemingly ignore the surrounding issues in which the author struggles. At other times I focus so much on the larger theological issue that the author’s point looks more like my own construction to match my argument than what she was actually saying. Why is this a new problem that wasn’t plaguing me in undergraduate courses?

Luckily, my high-value filter came at the right time. For my Public Church in America course, the ideal text was published after we finished most of the course. My closest friends are probably rolling their eyes since I keep talking about it, but on Nov. 1st, Mark Toulouse released God in Public: Four Ways American Christianity and Public Life Relate. This book is my neutral density filter that gives great exposure to what I’ve been reading in class this quarter. He spends three chapters specifically on the Public nature of Christianity and how it looks in the post-modern worldview.

His book wrestles with the issue of how much Christians not only do, but should, interact in Public life. Should individuals try to make “the” Christian viewpoint ruling for the rest of everyone else living in society? Should individual Christians engage Public life while not speaking as a church entity? Should the Church itself (denominations, congregations, groups of individuals) enter the Public conversation and how much of their voice should be allowed in the full discussion?

The book is worth it!

Mark had one point that will undoubtedly serve as the foundation for my final paper for the class: when the Public church does engage, it leaves behind any inherent privilege from previous social misconceptions and enters the conversation without invincibility … and that’s a good thing. “Christians who truly want to engage the public life of the nation must be willing to risk their comfort for discussion and dialogue; they must be willing to make their arguments in a context where counterarguments are made and all who participate are held accountable to the critical analysis of ideas” (190). My margin note was one phrase: “to do so may require talking less and listening more.” That’s the best strategy in which Christian voices will avoid the pitfalls of inadequacy in the dialogue. If Christianity is to have relevance in the Public sphere, it must step up to the challenge and give a reason for justice and mutual community to be the goals of all humanity.

Until next time …

We’re getting the cold weather in Chicago. I knew it would happen. Luckily, I went home to Iowa last weekend (6 hour drive; 5.5 for me) and got a winter coat so I will be ready for the season. Lower temperatures calls for longer times indoors accompanied, of course, by warm and scrumptious meals!

Last night I made a dish I thought impossible. I thought it was impossible the first time I saw it in Italy only to find out it was impossibly good once I tried it. Before last night I thought it impossible for me to re-create.

Luca, my baker in Italy had a type of pizza I’d written about (see the journal entry from 10/11/2005, the e-mail on patronage, or my e-mail highlighting specifically this pizza). It was bizarre: Gorgonzola cheese, pears, and walnuts. Last night I did the impossible. I recreated it. While not quite maintaining the crust consistency of Luca’s (his dough was softer with a harder bottom — if you’re reading this Luca — any tips?), my pizza had the blend of flavors almost perfect. The walnuts were plentiful, the pears had given their juices to the entire pie, and the gorgonzola melted to wrap all off the flavor into the texture.

Living in Chicago is much like Florence. Little pieces of Chicago trigger the memories. One of my favorite views in Florence was an everyday sight of looking through my bathroom window into the courtyard below. The bathroom was all tile and marble, which made it very easy to clean but incredibly slippery when wet. My bathroom in Chicago is like that. Standing on the tile and leaning over the radiator I look out into an alley three stories below. When I peer my head out to the left, I don’t see the elderly couple who would recline in warm nights smoking cigars or cigarettes as they drank wine and folded laundry and talked. I see an alley leading behind several of the fraternities towards 56th street. When I look out to the right, I do see the busy sidewalk and the frequent pedestrians remind me that it’s class time. My habit in Florence was to watch the streets as I tied my shoes or packed my bag before walking the mile to class. My curiosity wondered what was in the people’s stories, such the employee at the bike shop I lived above who shaved his head and talked on the cell phone more than most American teenagers; or, the daughter in her mid-thirties who walked hand in hand with her grandfather to the il Centro grocery store at the end of the street. What were their lives like?

It’s amusing now how much one successful recipe can bring back those moments. The ingredients are simple, but the method is crucial.

This week is full of transitional moments. Ryan Motter, one of my TCU classmates, is visiting the University of Chicago and the Disciples Divinity House to get a feel as he does his application. His presence alone brings back memories. His updates on everything Ft. Worth makes me miss it and also look at my current situation in a new light:

Several classmates and cohort members at Chicago have expressed their unease with the program and that they face constant identity and content-practicality issues. Ryan’s presence blessedly reminds me that my preparation was great for this environment. And it’s not just the shaping from the TCU Religion Department; my churches, my living situations, and my social circles have all enabled me to ward off exterior pressures that wrangle others into states of despair.

The previous paragraph portrays my friends’ reactions in too harsh a light. They do enjoy their situations and the challenges of school. However, they flounder in something I don’t.

On a side-topic: this summer I received a fellowship from the Fund for Theological Education. They give the Ministry fellows $5000 each to use for a ministry exploration activity the following summer that each fellow designs. I’m finally working on the foundation of my design and hope by the end of the month to have a cloudy idea of what events, people and places will fill my summer. I can already guarantee two things: any reading it involves will be casual and intentionally specific to my future ministries; also, I will force myself to keep some semblance of sabbath in the constant running-around. Reflecting on this summer I didn’t even voice lip-service to taking time off from the constant camp and programming schedule.

The pizza above represents by best attempt at sabbath-keeping in my University of Chicago lifestyle. I could eat the pizza on the run, but the laughter and stories with my friends would leave me hollow. Ironically, this pizza, when experienced in Italy, was always eaten on the run; until my last day there, that is. My last day I made a point to get a picture with Luca and I; I stayed in his bakery and savored the flavors while watching him serve his customers who were even more constant patrons than I. It was the first time I ate the pizza while in his bakery instead of grabbing the bag and hustling back to the apartment.

Like the previously impossible re-creation of the pizza, my non-existent (some would say impossible) sabbath practices will hopefully re-member the compartmentalized sections of my life in the coming months and summer.

What’s the most creative sabbath discipline you either practice or have heard of someone practicing (which, of course, probably spurned jealousy on your part!)? I’m curious on what works beyond the busy Sunday morning worships at churches or the morning coffee and paper routine. Who knows, I might even trade recipes for disciplines!