Page 1335 – Christianity Today (2024)

Folk singer Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) is having a pretty bad week, probably because he's in a movie written by Joel and Ethan Coen. He got beat up in an alley by a stranger, and he recently lost his musical partner. Some of his friends are making a living with music, but his solo record isn't selling. He's sleeping on people's couches. It's cold out, but he doesn't have a coat. He lost a friend's cat. His sister isn't going to loan him any money. Oh, and he might have impregnated his best friend's wife.

Clearly the only thing to do is set off for Chicago to see Bud Grossman (F. Murray Abraham), a producer who has a copy of his record and is his last real shot at making his passion pay the rent. So he commences hitchhiking and ends up in a car with a washed-up junkie jazz musician (John Goodman) and his brooding beat poet valet (Garrett Hedlund).

Things are not looking up for Llewyn.

Inside Llewyn Davis is a darkly funny film that recreates the texture of the Greenwich Village folk scene in 1961, and for those of us who love the Coens' meandering storytelling style, it's a masterpiece. It features some truly outstanding performances, both musical and thespian—particularly from Isaac, who performed the music live, as well as Justin Timberlake and Carey Mulligan, who play Llewyn's sweet-natured best friend Jim and his vitriolic wife Jean (who calls him "King Midas's idiot brother," alongside other choice terms). The Coens collaborated closely with T Bone Burnett, the music producer with whom they worked on O Brother, Where Art Thou (the film's soundtrack also features Marcus Mumford and Punch Brothers). And it looks good, too, thanks to cinematographer Bruno Delbonnell, whose other work includes the visually sumptuous Amelie.

It's also rich with narrative and symbolic layers and allusions, so many that I can't write about all of them because this essay would be at least three thousand words longer than it is. (Believe me, it was hard to refrain.) But like pretty much every movie the brothers have made, Inside Llewyn Davis improves if you put on some moviegoing spectacles and watch it with care (and it rewards a re-watch, too).

This is important to remember: the Coens are modern-day myth-weavers, contemporary legend-builders. Their characters and plots are often drawn from archetypes that already exist in our collective imagination. No matter what their movies are about—incompetent CIA agents, cheating wives, baby thieves, Midwestern cops—there's also invariably some kind of Big Story underneath, too, which is why a number of their movies are populated by zany larger-than-life characters who function as types as much as people.

I'm no classics scholar, but as a rule of thumb, I think about myths, legends, fables, and folktales as the stories a group of people tells each other about themselves in order to understand who they are. Scholars argue over whether and to what degree these stories originate in allegories or actual events, but as someone recently said to me, they are in a sense "more true" than the facts: they shape our imaginations about our identities as individuals, families, and communities. A creation story, for instance, tells a society where it came from, where it's headed, and what it can expect to encounter along the way. And so even if the events didn't "happen" exactly the way the story has it, it's still very true.

That's a tricky thing for us moderns, who tend to define "true" things as "events that actually happened in our universe in space and time." But another kind of "truth," driven by narratives we tell one another and take in together, can also shape reality in powerful ways. Consider how American stories about cowboys have shaped the way Americans think about themselves on the world stage: self-sufficient independent individuals wearing white hats and riding forth to serve justice.

The Coens have been drawing on legends and archetypes (especially those familiar to Americans) since they started making movies. Blood Simple (1984) traces its lineage through noir classics like Double Indemnity (1944). Raising Arizona (1987) features a hell-raising motorcyclist who seems to be the kind of demon of indeterminate origin that Javier Bardem would later portray in No Country for Old Men (2007). The Big Lebowski (1998) is enough of a head-scratcher that it's been interpreted as everything from political commentary about the Gulf War to a fable about a latter-day messiah. True Grit (2010) is a remake of a classic Western, which originally starred the most iconic of all cowboys, John Wayne. And A Serious Man (2009) is transparently the Coens' remake of the story of Job, with a twist ending.

One of my favorites, Fargo (1996), both capitalizes on the modern penchant for "true" stories and inverts it. The film's title cards claim that "THIS IS A TRUE STORY." But the brothers admitted later that the whole plot is fictional, though based on various crimes drawn from the newspapers. "We weren't interested in that kind of fidelity," Joel said in an interview. "The basic events are the same as in the real case, but the characterizations are fully imagined . . . If an audience believes that something's based on a real event, it gives you permission to do things they might otherwise not accept."

Inside Llewyn Davis bears a cosmetic resemblance to the most obviously mythical of the Coens' films, O Brother, Where Art Thou (2000), with its dual backdrop of an Americana soundtrack and references to Homer's Odyssey. Both films fit the larger narrative type to which Homer's poem belongs: the hero goes on an epic journey, then returns home (at one point Llewyn even spots the movie poster for The Incredible Journey, though it's a bit of an anachronism, since it actually came out in 1963).

But while O Brother's plot draws heavily on Homer's, the references in Inside Llewyn Davis seem to have as much to do with James Joyce as Homer. Our hero Llewyn, like Leonard Bloom in Joyce's Ulysses, has episodic hapless adventures around town—in this case, New York's Greenwich Village, with a mid-film jaunt to Chicago—with no conquering hero's end.

For all its sibling resemblance to O Brother, though, beleaguered Llewyn's real twin is Barton Fink, the unlucky playwright-turned-Hollywood-flack played by John Turturro in the 1991 film. Like Llewyn, who's living around the edges of success but manages to torpedo his chances at every turn (maybe on purpose), Barton Fink has experienced a bit of success, but is loathe to capitalize on it too much, lest he lose touch with the "common man." (Unlike Llewyn, Barton Fink is actually getting paid rather handsomely for his work.)

Both men are presumably on their way out as artists. And both are struggling with the rapid commercialization of their craft—folk music on one hand (the film covers the Village folk scene during the very last week before the Age of Dylan) and theater and film around the apex of Hollywood's Golden Age on the other. (Both also experience some trauma at the hands of a psychopathic John Goodman.)

There's some speculation that the second half of Barton Fink is all some kind of dream, and it's at least possible that most of Inside Llewyn Davis is, too—at the very least, both films let viewers dwell for a bit in their protagonists' state of mind. Ethan Coen remarked that it was "correct to say that we wanted the spectator to share in the interior life of Barton Fink as well as his point of view."

Most importantly, though, both of these stories capitalize on another of our cherished cultural myths: the plight of the creative soul. Making stuff is hard work. The roadblocks are many. (One imagines the Coens know a thing or two about that.) Barton Fink, in a film the brothers wrote after hitting a wall with Miller's Crossing, is suffering from a couple of classic artists' problems—creative block, belligerent business types, scary next-door neighbors. Llewyn Davis, on the other hand, has created most of his own problems by being a bit of a curmudgeon. But both of them are crashing and burning because they are not just living as artists, but living the legend of the artist who fights to stay "authentic."

Ironically, both men run into problems because of their idealized versions of authenticity. Barton's so consumed with his own problems that he winds up alienating the only "common man" he encounters. Llewyn scoffs openly at Jean's "careerist" and "square" and "sad" dreams of a normal life. He tells his sister he doesn't want to just "exist"—"existing ain't so bad," she retorts—and is horrified by the thought of ending up like his father, a merchant marine who's living out his days a broken-down old man in a nursing home. And he winds up loudly taunting the only truly "authentic" folk musician in the whole movie.

But the Coens, ever tricksters, invert the mythos and give us a new one, one that's undeniably true even if rooted in fiction: that of the artist whose genius needs to take a back seat to his squashed humanity. In a few great moments, Llewyn encounters writing on the wall (once literally) that asks him to consider his life's path. The junkie jazz has-been is a laughable, pitiable mess. Jean fairly spits at Llewyn for never thinking about the future. "What you do," the mysterious assailant mutters as he stalks off, leaving Llewyn writhing with pain on a cold, wet sidewalk.

In the end, we don't really know where Llewyn will land. Significantly, though, the version of the folk classic "Fare Thee Well (Dink's Song)" on the soundtrack, which Llewyn also recorded with his partner, differs a bit from the version recorded by people like Bob Dylan and Jeff Buckley; it includes a verse with the lyric, "Life ain't worth livin' without the one you love."

Llewyn's just starting to figure that out.

Caveat Spectator

Inside Llewyn Davis is rated R for "language including some sexual references," and that's exactly correct. Those sensitive to those matters should take a pass on this one, though it doesn't reach Lebowski heights of profanity, by a long shot. There are a lot of f-bombs and other four-letter words, often as epithets or expressions of exasperation, occasionally as crude references to sex, and once as a reference to excrement. Two characters briefly discuss male genitalia. One character is considering an abortion. A character passes out from drug overdose. And Llewyn gets beat up by a stranger in a dark alley.

Alissa Wilkinson is chief film critic at Christianity Today and assistant professor of English and humanities at The King's College. She tweets at @alissamarie.

For today's entry in the Friday Five interview series, we catch up with Craig Detweiler.

Craig Detweiler directs the Center for Entertainment, Media, and Culture at Pepperdine University. Craig's cultural commentary has appeared on ABC's Nightline, CNN, Fox News, Al Jazeera, NPR, and in The New York Times. His latest book is iGods. You can connect with him @craigdetweiler on Twitter.

Today we chat with Craig about technology, developing a theology for technology, and digital discipleship.

With iGods, you know that you are hitting most of us where we live—on our phones, tablets, and laptops—is this book intended to wake us up?

I'm trying to wake myself up! I became a bit disturbed by my own dependence, looking down at my phone rather than up at my friends, my family and God's wonderful world. As a professor, I also saw how much students were missing by tracking with their Facebook status rather than the substantive conversations we were having in class. It was remarkable how much more active a media or communication class became after I banished computers and cell phones. iGods taps into the love/hate relationship we all seem to have with our devices.

Marshall McCluhan famously said that the "medium is the message," but I'd guess that most Christians assume a philosophy that says mediums are neutral as long as we achieve "balance." But is this right?

Technology is rarely neutral. When bridges were invented, all kinds of complications arose—more commercial trade as well as more potential attacks. Splitting an atom can result in nuclear power or nuclear bombs. And neither of those outputs is "neutral." My hope is that we will consider the larger and longer term implications of our current technological shifts. Churches must think theologically about the technologies they're embracing. Christians have often been at the forefront of technology, from monks who embraced clocks as a way to regulate work and prayer times, to the incorporation of bells, glass, and architectural innovations in our churches. But I doubt the monks thought the mechanical clock would lead to the industrial era of workers punching the clock or notions of God as a disinterested watchmaker. When we brought pews and organs into the church, we altered worship. Same holds true for our big screen projectors, guitars, and amps. So we must be thoughtful and prayerful about what bring into the sanctuary. Bigger, louder, and faster isn't necessarily better.

Some might advocate a complete withdrawal from technology and yet you would say that reflects a poor theology as well, would you not?

No one escapes the pull of technology and how it enhances our lives. Clothing was a great consolation for Adam and Eve. Same with the hoe or the plow. In building an ark to God's specifications, Noah preserved the biodiversity of creation. We don't think of the fork as technology, because we all embrace it as a great invention. Same with glasses. Who wants to go back to life without penicillin? God commanded us to be fruitful and multiply. Better agriculture, medicine, and education help us fulfill that calling. We're also called to replenish the earth, to steward our resources. Technology can make us better servants of God and each other.

You say we need a "theology" for our technology. What do you mean by that?

Over the centuries, we've thought carefully about theological anthropology—what it means to be created in the image of God, eccesiology—the life of the God's community, the church, soteriology—what salvation means, how it occurs through Christ and the cross, and escatology—where we are headed as God's people. While these core theologies remain quite important, we also find ourselves under-prepared to wrestle with consumption, abundance, and all the opportunities that endless entertainment and technology offer. We are being challenged by the notion that we are meant to be information processors, highly efficient in our thinking, living, and relationships. Technologists have strong notions of where we're headed, how humanity will merge with machines; the Singularity as eschatology. These new ways of being and behaving should drive us back to our essentials, to wrestle anew with who we are, whose we are, how we live in community, and what idols and temptations we need to be delivered from.

If you could counsel church leaders, how would you advise them to approach, in their teaching and personal life example, an adequate theology of technology?

As with entertainment, the temptation seems to be disengagement or overindulgence. How do develop a maturity that welcomes the wonders and gifts of technology without letting our devices drive our decision-making?

I've been rereading Scripture with an eye on technology, wondering how to translate enduring truths into contemporary terms. For example, can we call God the original technologist? Perhaps it is helpful to talk about Genesis in terms of engineering and aesthetics. We know that Jesus was more than a carpenter's son, but do we also realize the Greek word for "carpenter" was tekton? Perhaps the "magic" that we associate with the iPhone isn't so far removed from the original Designer.

I haven't heard enough pastors talking and modeling digital discipleship. If our congregants spend hours each week involved in social media, then how do we follow God and craft a winsome witness via our smart phones? In the 21st century, we all have the capacity to be narrowcasters, with the possibility of becoming broadcasters. That is a remarkable moment to preach and teach within.

We also might find ourselves distinguished by our ongoing belief in the sacredness of the body, the need to relieve physical and psychic pain and suffering via presence—from chicken soup to bedside prayers. I'm confident the Spirit will continue to lead us towards acts of kindness towards our neighbors and into the farthest corners of the Internet.

Daniel Darling is vice-president of communications for the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission. He is the author of several books, including his latest, Activist Faith.

Many readers will remember the apprehension and delight with which the world watched South Africa in the early 1990s as the racial oppression of apartheid came to an end and the beloved country achieved a peaceful transition to a non-racial constitutional democracy.

The most widely recognized symbol of the struggle against apartheid, and of South Africa in the aftermath of that struggle, was Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela (July 18, 1918 to December 5, 2013), known to the millions who loved him as Tata Madiba ("Tata" is "daddy" in Xhosa, and "Madiba" is Mandela's clan name; in the usage of his Xhosa ethnic community is a form of address that shows respect). He died today at 95.

I share the deep affection many feel for Tata Madiba—as a participant, in a small way, in the struggle against apartheid; as a witness to its consequences as an interpreter for the testimony of both victims and perpetrators of gross human rights abuses before South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission; and as a citizen of South Africa. I am deeply grateful for his leadership both in resistance and as president. I pray that we will see him enjoying resurrection in Christ, come God's new earth.

And yet, and yet.

In the late 1980s we would sing along with Johnny Clegg's band Savuka in their song for the imprisoned Mandela, "Asimbonanga":

Asimbonang' umandela thina (We have not seen Mandela)

Laph'ehleli khona (in the place where he is kept)

Hey wena nawe (hey you and you as well)

Siyofika nini la' siyakhona (when will we arrive at our destination)?

For all of the great work of Mandela and his generation, the people of South Africa continue to suffer much violence at one another's hands, and deep poverty continues to imprison millions. Even as we bring tribute to one of the great leaders in human history, and even as we work for justice and against poverty, like the poet of Psalm 40 we pray, God, do not delay.

As many mourn his passing, Christians worldwide can learn from Mandela about the necessity, the difficulty, and the limits of politics.

The biblical Scriptures are clear in their insistence that justice is not optional, and that working for justice is a necessary part of a life well lived. The message of the prophet in Isaiah 58 to the people of God hit me like a hammer blow to the forehead in my earliest years as a follower of Jesus: no justice, no worship. The proper gratitude of people to whom God has shown grace cannot other than include working for justice.

I am not enough of a student of Mandela's life to know from what sources he drew strength in the midst of the complexity and difficulty of a political vocation. Other political activists, such as Dietrich Bonhoeffer, have given an account of the importance of a life of prayer, and in particular the importance of the psalms as a school of prayer, for developing a robust spirituality for political activism. But however Mandela understood God and his relationship with God, and whatever sustenance he might have drawn from the biblical Scriptures or the Christian tradition, his life bears testimony to the necessity of politics in the struggle for justice.

And at the same time Mandela's life demonstrates the complexity and difficulty of working for justice. Political activism is neither easy nor simple. Political activism requires great love, deep commitment, careful discernment, tremendous resilience, and extreme endurance. Working for justice can wreak havoc in the life of a family (as evidenced by Mandela being married three times). Working for justice demands heartbreaking choices (as evidenced by Mandela's renunciation of nonviolent resistance and commitment to an armed struggle). And working for justice can have very serious consequences (as evidenced by Mandela's 27 years in prison).

Mandela first came to national prominence in the 1950s as a leader and spokesperson of the African National Congress's (ANC) Defiance Campaign. This was a campaign of civil disobedience against the intensification of laws oppressing black South Africans under the apartheid (apartness, segregation) regime that came to power at the end of the 1940s. Founded in 1912 to work for the expansion of the legal rights of non-white South Africans, the ANC became the leading anti-apartheid organization, and for decades it was officially committed to non-violent resistance against unjust laws and government actions.

On March 21, 1960, police officers opened fire on a crowd gathered in the Sharpeville township outside Johannesburg to protest against newly intensified oppressive laws, killing 69. The Sharpeville Massacre, as it became known, persuaded Mandela that nonviolent resistance was no longer an adequate response to the oppression and violence perpetrated by the apartheid government. With other members of the ANC, Mandela formed its armed wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe (Spear of the Nation), popularly known as MK.

In 1962 Mandela was sentenced to prison for life in the Rivonia Trial because of his participation in the activities of MK. In the end he served 27 years in prison, much of it on Robben Island off the coast at Cape Town. At the same time the ANC and most other anti-apartheid organizations were banned—made illegal. During these prison years Mandela became a catalytic symbol of the struggle against the injustice of South Africa's racist political order.

In February 1990 Mandela was released from prison as then-President FW De Klerk unbanned the anti-apartheid organizations and initiated a process of negotiations that eventually led to a relatively peaceful transition to a non-racial constitutional democracy. As a result of the first elections under the new constitution, Mandela was inaugurated as South Africa's first black president on May 10, 1994.

As president, Mandela not only served as a potent symbol of the newly democratic nation's high hopes (Readers may remember the scenes from the movie Invictus, in which Mandela is—accurately—portrayed wearing the captain's jersey as he hands the victorious South African team the Rugby World Cup trophy). He also proved to be a wise and skillful political leader, deftly negotiating the tensions between the different factions across South Africa's many divides—race, class, faith, age, tribe, and more—and presiding over tectonic shifts in the arrangement of South African society and political life, all with much less bloodshed than most observers had anticipated.

After retiring as president in 1999, Mandela expanded the scope of his concern to the whole of Africa, participating in large-scale efforts to limit the spread of AIDS and intervening in conflicts around the continent, and served as a global symbol of the possibilities of reconciliation in situations of intense conflict, the importance of which had been confirmed earlier in 1993, when Mandela shared a Nobel Peace Prize with FW De Klerk.

But the reality that the government of South Africa has, in the 20 years since the end of apartheid, not managed to protect its citizens against violent crime, and that, despite significant economic growth, masses of South Africans continue to languish in poverty, shows the limits of politics. Many of Mandela's supporters and admirers have felt that Mandela, for all the good he did, did not do enough to make South Africa a better place yet.

Yet it would be a mistake to imagine that any leader, no matter how wise, sincere, or effective, could have single-handedly ensured an even better transition out of apartheid. And it would be as much of a mistake to imagine that all of South Africa's problems—or all the problems of this beautiful but broken world—can be resolved politically.

Politics has limits. Governments can and must restrain criminals and public violence, establish just and effective laws and courts, and shape a public order within which the other spheres of human society may flourish. But not with the best will or instruments can a government and its citizenry bring parents to love their children, make the lazy diligent or the profligate frugal, or accurately anticipate all of the unintended consequences of every legislative or executive effort.

And so, much as we may honor and learn from Nelson Mandela, and resolve to live in the light of Isaiah 58, so must we also live in the light of Isaiah 60, and its sobering but hopeful revelation that in the end, all will be well, although not ultimately because of the work of human hands, but because of the outworking of the reign of God in Christ and through the Spirit—toward which the work of a Nelson Mandela is indeed a signpost.

Gideon Strauss is the executive director of the Max De Pree Center for Leadership at Fuller Theological Seminary and a senior fellow of the Center for Public Justice. A South African by birth, he was a conscientious objector against military service under apartheid and an interpreter for South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Maybe it's the waning light and earlier evenings as we head into winter. Or the book I just read on the effects of environmental toxins on fetal development and breast milk quality. Or the upcoming anniversary of the Newtown shootings. Whatever the reasons, as we enter Advent, I am increasingly aware of the darkness of this world into which I am bringing my child, due any day now.

It's a deeply disturbing realization. Welcome, little one, to a place where kids are shot in schools and on street corners, wars rage, and corporate interests often trump the common good. The things I see and hear about every day rattle my heart with worry.

Growing up with an overprotective mother, I told myself would never be that fearful and worried about my own children. Now, I realize it is only natural. The small fists and knees jabbing my insides put my inner mother-bear on 24/7 high-alert. I am always on the prowl for potential threats to my child's well-being.

My instinct is to do everything in my power to keep out danger, but if I think I can find a cave isolated enough to protect this child of mine from all the threats this world brings, I am sorely mistaken. I would also be resisting the Advent call to stare darkness in the face and keep being present, holding out hope for something more powerful than death.

Our God did what every mother would shudder to do. He sent his child directly into the heart of evil with no protection, save faith, hope, and extravagant love. God the Father did not shelter Jesus from the terror and loss of living in our broken, bleeding world. He chose instead to be present with us, to enter into our pain. During Advent, as we prepare our hearts for the arrival of the vulnerable Christ child, our call is to likewise look pain and darkness full on.

I'd rather not. I'd rather think that I am somehow immune from tragedy. That, if I am protective, vigilant, and well-informed enough, my baby will not develop cancer or get shot walking to school. Like the wealthy residents of Elysium, I'd rather escape to a pristine man-made planet if things on earth get too nasty, or at least carve out my little sheltered corner of the world where bad things can't come in, where my baby is safe. Yet, that is not the Advent call. The Advent call goes against all natural instincts: Don't escape. Don't self-protect. Enter in. Be present.

Why on earth would we do that? Faced with the weight of our human condition, won't we collapse under the grief? Won't our hearts be crushed? It's easier to go on living if we just look the other way, pretend like things are not so bad, and say under our breath, "That won't happen to me or my loved ones."

We hear most frequently that Advent is about waiting. And it is. It's about living in the tension between the present reality and the hoped-for future where God dwells with us in fullness. But we cannot truly open our hearts to wait on God to act until we acknowledge just how bad our current predicament is. Until we enter into the pain of being human and realize nothing we can do will protect us from this pain.

In The Prophetic Imagination, Walter Brueggemann describes this paradox. Examining the ministry of the biblical prophets, including Moses, Jeremiah, and Jesus, he concludes that it is only when we face the darkness and allow ourselves to grieve that something new can emerge. The work of grief is "the precondition of joy," Brueggemann writes. As Jesus says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted" (Matt. 5:4). In other words, when we allow ourselves to be disturbed out of complacency, we make room in our hearts and lives for the kingdom of God to emerge and amaze us. Advent, then, is about letting ourselves be disturbed, shaken out of numbness, so we can long for something more, something beyond our human capacity.

I also like how Parker Palmer describes this process in his book A Hidden Wholeness. Sometimes it hurts too much to hold together both the hope of wholeness and the present pain. It makes our hearts break. But a broken heart, Palmer says, isn't necessarily a bad thing. You can think of it as something broken apart and shattered, like glass, or as something broken open, like a crack in a seed about to sprout. "As I stand in the tragic gap between reality and possibility," he writes, "this small, tight fist of a thing called my heart can break open into a greater capacity to hold more of my own and the world's suffering and joy, despair and hope." Opening our hearts to pain, according to Palmer, increases our capacity for hope.

During Advent, we wait and hope patiently in the darkness for the emergence of Christ's light. We allow our hearts to break as we face the tragic reality of our world, so that through the cracks God's newness can emerge. As a new mother, I take heart in knowing that God is with me as I bring a tiny baby into a cold, dark world. He is with me not just as a presence from afar; he is with me intimately as a parent who has gone through the same thing. In this knowledge, and in the life, death, and resurrection of his Son, I have hope. Come, Lord Jesus.

Past controversy surrounding Ergun Caner was not a deterrent for one of Georgia's three Southern Baptist colleges in unanimously picking the ex-Muslim-turned-academic as its next president.

Instead, it was an incentive.

"We didn't consider Dr. Caner in spite of the attacks; we elected him because of them," said a trustee for Brewton-Parker College (BPC) in announcing the "controversial educator" as its 16th president (press release copied below). "He has endured relentless and pagan attacks like a warrior. We need a warrior as our next president."

CT has covered the debate over Caner's biography and whether he exaggerated his testimony in positioning himself as an evangelical expert on Islam. Associated Baptist Press summarizes some past statements.

Here's how BPC summarized Caner's bio in its press release:

"Born in Stockholm, Sweden in 1966, Caner is the oldest son of a devout Turkish Muslim leader. The family immigrated to the United States first in 1969 and settled in central Ohio. Through the persistence of a high school friend, Caner converted to Christianity and became a minister shortly thereafter. He is a 1984 graduate of Gahanna Lincoln High School."

CT reported how Liberty University investigated the allegations in 2010 and eventually decided not to renew Caner's contract as seminary dean for making "factual statements that are self-contradictory." Meanwhile, his publisher defended Caner's biography in Unveiling Islam, as did scholar Norman Geisler.

Caner remained at Liberty as a professor until becoming provost and academic dean at Arlington Baptist College in 2011. Most recently, CT noted Caner's legal attempt to take down YouTube videos of past speeches posted by critics.

Outgoing BPC president Dr. Mike Simoneaux stated in the release, "This appointment will excite Georgia Baptists and Southern Baptists who will sit up and take notice that Brewton-Parker College and its trustees are serious about its stand on the infallibility of the Scriptures and its decision to honor Jesus Christ in every area."

BPC is affiliated with the Georgia Baptist Convention. Its enrollment during the 2011-2012 school year was 629.

The full press release:

Brewton-Parker College Calls Caner as President

Controversial Educator Determined to Raise the College's Profile

Mount Vernon, Georgia – On Monday evening, the Board of Trustees voted unanimously to elect Dr. Ergun Caner as president of Brewton-Parker College. Brewton-Parker is one of three colleges affiliated with the Georgia Baptist Convention.

Outgoing president Dr. Mike Simoneaux said, "I am excited about the appointment of Dr. Ergun Caner as the 16th president of Brewton-Parker. Dr. Caner brings a wealth of experience to the presidency with more than three decades in Christian higher education leadership, Biblical teaching, preaching and apologetics. This appointment will excite Georgia Baptists and Southern Baptists who will sit up and take notice that Brewton-Parker College and its trustees are serious about its stand on the infallibility of the Scriptures and its decision to honor Jesus Christ in every area. I have no doubt that the college will grow and strengthen exponentially under his leadership. Bonnie and I leave the college knowing that the school we have loved since our first step onto the campus is in the strong, spirit-led and capable hands of President Ergun Caner. May God richly bless his presidency."

Born in Stockholm, Sweden in 1966, Caner is the oldest son of a devout Turkish Muslim leader. The family immigrated to the United States first in 1969 and settled in central Ohio. Through the persistence of a high school friend, Caner converted to Christianity and became a minister shortly thereafter. He is a 1984 graduate of Gahanna Lincoln High School.

Caner received his Bachelor of Arts in Biblical Studies from Cumberland College in 1989, his Master of Arts from Criswell College (TX) in 1992, a Master of Divinity (1994) and a Master of Theology (1995) from the Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary (NC) and the Doctor of Theology from the University of South Africa.

Caner comes to the position from the Arlington Baptist College in Texas, where he served as Provost and Academic Dean since 2011. Prior to that, Caner served as the Dean of the Liberty Baptist Theological Seminary in Lynchburg, Virginia, the school started by the late Rev. Jerry Falwell of the Moral Majority. Falwell named Caner as Dean in 2004.

In 2010 Caner was embroiled in controversy when religious bloggers accused him of embellishing his background as a former Muslim turned Christian. When those bloggers began uploading videos allegedly of Caner, Liberty University formed a committee to investigate the charges. Though the committee found no evidence of Caner deliberately lying, he stepped down as Dean, though he continued as a full-time professor until he went to Arlington.

One of the most popular speakers on the evangelical circuit, Caner speaks at Christian youth camps and conferences, as well as conventions and academic gatherings. His younger brother, Dr. Emir Caner, is President of Truett-McConnell College in Cleveland, Georgia. Together the brothers have written numerous books on world religions including Unveiling Islam, which won the Gold Medallion Award in Evangelical Publishing in 2003.

Trustee Lynda Yawn, who chaired the search committee, commented, "Having prayerfully considered the job description and the current needs of the college, the search committee implemented a search process considering internal and external applicants. After interviews and deliberation, the committee was led to offer the position of president to Dr. Ergun Caner."

Board of Trustees chairman Rev. Bucky Kennedy also commented, "I am excited about Dr. Caner being the 16th president of Brewton-Parker College and believe our best and brightest days are in front of us. His visionary leadership and passion for students are remarkable and refreshing and his character and love for God are admirable and inspirational."

Another trustee summarized the vote: "We didn't consider Dr. Caner in spite of the attacks; we elected him because of them. He has endured relentless and pagan attacks like a warrior. We need a warrior as our next president."

"Bad books always lie," says Bethany Jenkins, quoting the novelist Walker Percy. The quote continues: "They lie most of all about the human condition."

But Jenkins is convinced that Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling do not.

Jenkins and I are walking toward a bench in Central Park in New York City, where the best and worst of the human condition is amplified by 8.34 million residents.

"Where comedians fall into place is that they are so honest about the human condition," says Jenkins, a 30-something resident of NYC for ten years, who says the two comediennes are "like friends." She says, "My generation . . . [doesn't] have much interest in authority. The Four Spiritual Laws, used during my parents' generation to contextualize the gospel, just isn't going to [resonate] for my generation. It's going to be the lived-out lifestyle of the Christian person that will be our biggest example of faith."

After a career on the New York Stock Exchange, the State Department, and Capitol Hill, Jenkins founded the Park Forum to "promote Bible engagement in the urban church on a daily basis." A member of Redeemer Presbyterian Church, where she is mentored by Kathy Keller, Jenkins and the Park Forum provide daily devotionals and small-group curricula for Christian urban professionals seeking the common good throughout the five boroughs. "As the Park is to the City, so the Word is to Life—we can rest, run, and play in the Word," says Jenkins. The Park Forum blog, "843 Acres," has about 2,200 email subscribers, but many of them don't know Jenkins's name. Yet she has a strong network of friends and fans, as well as a dedicated board and growing donor base.

Sitting near the Reservoir in Central Park, Jenkins and I spoke about TV's funny ladies, the time she listened to Scripture for an entire weekend, and how the Park Forum equips Christians to seek the common good.

One of your readers, a tax lawyer at McKinsey, said that the Park Forum creates this virtual community of professionals who can read your blog devotionals [400 words or less] on the subway. Does The Park Forum create community—either online or off?

One thing an organization that's not the church can do is support the local church. I have no interest in the Park Forum replacing the local church. At the same time, I want to support the community as it is. One way we've done that is through an Advent Series last Christmas in which I asked local pastors and Christian leaders [including Tim and Kathy Keller of Redeemer; Ryan Taylor of Apostles; author Sally Lloyd-Jones; Clay Cook of Cru; Melissa Tamplin Harrison of PURE; Mitch Glaser of Chosen People Ministries; David Cho of City Life in Boston] to write devotionals. I wanted the city to realize that they are part of their local congregation and that we are a part of a "city congregation." In the same way, Trinity Grace Church hosts a Citywide Worship.

I'm actually not trying to create an online community. Not that it's wrong, but it takes a lot of manpower, and I'm only one person with a part-time staff person. I see the Park Forum as an online tool facilitating in-person community.

Speaking of all the local churches that you reach out to, how do you write to your different audiences?

People come from all types of churches, and I try not to talk about theological hot-button issues that would be divisive or a stumbling block. I will say that I had someone unsubscribe after I quoted the Pope—

Pope Francis?

Yes. [laughter] And, actually, I'd be shocked if this person were a New Yorker.

A New Yorker would have unsubscribed if you had quoted Billy Graham.

Exactly.

In August we'll do Reader's Choice, and I'll generally try to get businesspeople and lawyers and all types of professionals to write the devotionals. We also have seasonal Bible listening gatherings, where we get together in person to hear the Scriptures.

What do you think of the public listening to and reading of Scripture? [I had recently seen Jenkins at a weekly Scripture listening gathering hosted by a businessman in Midtown.]

There's something about listening to Scripture in community. These letters weren't meant to be read only in part. People in the time of their writing didn't read just five verses—there were no verses anyway. These letters were from the apostle Paul, and people wanted to hear them.

We took a group to a donor's home in upstate New York and on Friday night [using one of the popular Scripture listening productions] we listened to prophets pre-exile—one to Judah, one to Israel—then we did Lamentations during exile, then Malachi post-exile. Then we turned off the lights to manifest the 400 years of silence where after Malachi spoke and when the Gospel writers came in.

The next morning, we did all of Luke; in the evening we did all of Acts, then on Sunday morning we did the Psalms of Ascent (Psalms 120-134). It was an amazing weekend.

Inductive reading is one approach to the Bible inductively. But really, the Jewish tradition is to read it like a story. And not asking questions after every single verse. Sometimes I'll read a book of the Bible in one sitting, and instead of stopping and looking up every single word, I'll just put a question mark next to things that I want to look up later. This way, you get the whole picture. When you have a public reading, likewise, you don't pause and talk about one specific verse. There's beauty in just going through.

Even secular feminist Camille Paglia has said, "[The Bible] is a fundamental text that everyone, atheist or believer, should know." Why do you think cities need citizens who are deeply familiar with Scripture?

It is dangerous to think about the "common good" without first thinking about our own personal renewal. The most fundamental call that any Christian receives is to be in relationship with the Caller—to be a part of the Trinitarian love of the Lord. We see this in Jesus' high priestly prayer in John 17. Whether or not we experience any other call on our lives is, in some ways, irrelevant if we pursue them at the expense of knowing and experiencing God.

How do we know and experience him? One way is through reading Scripture. Our intimacy with the Word affects the fullness of our prayer lives, the trust we have in his promises, the robustness of our communities, the public faith we display to others, and, most of all, the core of who we are. We are changed when we stop worshiping idols and begin to experience being a child of God.

I recently wrote a piece for The Gospel Coalition about how to humanize the workplace. Christians are not the only ones thinking about this, but we—unlike the city—think about what it means to be human by thinking about what it means to be made in God's image. We don't willy-nilly pull ideas out of our heads about what we think it means to be human; we look to the Scriptures. We see how God made us. Then we implement them into our workplaces. What better way to impact the common good of our cities?

We go to church on Sundays, where we are "the gathered church," but then we go into our offices and our homes and our workshare spaces, where we are "the scattered church." At The Park Forum, we hope to equip "the scattered church" with the truths of Scripture so that we can live out the realities of God's original intention in our cities.

How has your legal training influenced your work?

After law school, I found that the skills I'd learned were so helpful, especially inter-textual interpretation, like figuring out the Old and New Testament. That's what lawyers do all the time: we interpret the statute against the Constitution. Legal thinking also comes into play when we consider an author's "original intent," and figuring out whether a particular teaching should be interpreted broadly or narrowly based on its directness, context, and so forth.

Along more general lines, most lawyers strive to be objective and to weigh competing concerns without displaying emotion, and we also have an ability to live in the grey in many areas, which I think is important when talking about the transcendent holiness and mystery of the Lord.

When it comes to my writing, I think legal writing requires clarity. When I was in law school, we were taught that adverbs were "needless words" (in the words of Strunk & White), so I rarely use them. I also rarely use exclamation marks. My goal is to be clear and concise. [Editor's note: Jenkins has good precedent in going to White; it was E. B. himself who wrote the seminal "Here Is New York," a robust and pithy 1947 survey of what makes New York vibrant.]

If the Park Forum weren't already based on the park, what would you name it?

In spring 2009, I was running in Central Park, and it was the first nice day of spring. And it was packed. And it was probably a weekend, so it was extra crowded.

And I got this phrase: "As the park is to the city, so the Word is to life." I had that phrase before the name. After the long, dead winter in the city, this is where people come. And that's what I wanted. I wanted that symbol for city people. We don't have backyards or grill-outs.

The bad part of the park—and I'm pretty passionate about this—is that people will take a picture of nature and post it on Instagram and say, "Isn't God good?" And that's true, but God is in you and in me, sinful human beings. That's where he placed his image. Even more than in this park.

So in some way, it might be the subway—a subway car. Because, as Tim Keller says, there's more square inch of the image of God in a subway car than most other places.

Haley M Anderson / Lightstock

Jeff Bezos is a brilliant man and a remarkable marketer. He realizes that in the wake of Steve Jobs' death, the role of technologist-in-chief is up for grabs. And while Google is offering us Glass and Facebook and Twitter are aggregating our friends and followers, Amazon is appealing to a different felt need—for speed. By turning 60 Minutes into a platform to announce "drone delivery," Bezos shifted the news cycle towards Amazon on the same day that Christians have traditionally initiated Advent. While people of faith were shifting into a season of waiting and anticipation, Amazon offered the promise of "Prime Air" that could go above and beyond UPS or Federal Express to deliver our choices in an even faster, more convenient manner—via octocopters.

It doesn't really matter when this innovation will arrive. By getting us talking and thinking about the virtues of Amazon's delivery methods, Bezos enjoyed a miraculous public relations coup. On the eve of Cyber Monday, social media was already abuzz about Amazon. Bezos turned Google, Facebook, Twitter, and traditional media into his personal delivery service, bringing us all the good news that Amazon was primed to deliver what we wanted, where we wanted, when we wanted. Consumer gratification is completed in the land of Amazonia, not the Fiefdom of Facebook or Appleton or the Twitterverse.

In researching Amazon for my new book, iGods, I was surprised to discover that Amazon was never really about books. Bezos was always more of a numbers person looking for a way to leverage the power of the Internet. He left a lucrative position on Wall Street because he saw how the aggregating ability of online databases could revolutionize almost any industry. Bezos chose bookselling because of the inefficiencies built into the existing system. There were so many books in print that no store could possibly stock them all. So even as superstores like Barnes and Noble and Borders were knocking out small, independent booksellers by offering consumers more choices, Bezos understood that even the giants were only capable of carrying a tiny percentage of the titles available. What if Amazon could offer more choices than a superstore and more personalized recommendations than the local bookstore? Look at the promise embedded within Amazon's logo—choices from A to Z with a smile.

While other Internet startups were already attempting to stake a claim as the world's biggest online bookstore, Amazon was offering both choice and convenience. Bezos understood that in the Internet era, speed with a smile was amongst our highest felt needs. We wanted to be served, fast. Amazon survived and thrived amidst the boom and bust of Internet flameouts because Bezos pursued the long tail. He took smaller profits over the long haul, investing in infrastructure that made faithful delivery and counterintuitive experiments like Amazon Prime possible. Prime Air is a logical extension of the values we've all come to espouse—we want limitless choices delivered as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Our deepest longings and heartfelt cries may not be met by an octocopter.

Amidst all the hubbub accompanying the announcement of Prime Air, plenty of jokes about shooting down each other's delivery drones (only to discover goods like Pampers inside) followed. And how amazing to think that a technology we've come to associate with airstrikes in the Middle East could shift from "death from above" to showers of blessings. Kudos to Bezos and his team for having the imagination to repurpose war machines into shopping carts and delivery trucks (that is almost comparable to beating swords into plowshares).

While it may seem far-fetched to think that our airspace could even be cleared for that many octocopters to land, it does turn Amazon even more into our personal Santas. Amazon has almost actualized the childhood promise of Santa Claus, responding to our list-making by landing our roofs and dropping gifts down our chimneys, while we sleep. In Amazonia, every morning is like Christmas with freshly delivered gifts ready to be opened. Amazon puts a big smile on all our childlike faces.

Some may protest that life isn't like that. We don't all get what we want, when we want. Yet, Amazon is already awfully close to making it so (if we have the means to pay for such convenience). We may bemoan the consumerism that such options encourage, yet we must remember that we call them consumer goods, not consumer bads. We love choice. We love bargains. We love convenience. Bezos doesn't expect any of those virtues to ever go out of style (and neither do I). What I find vexing is the timing.

On the same day that Christians are called to enter a time of waiting and anticipation, Amazon suggested with Prime Air that we should never have to wait. The iGods (Bezos, Jobs, Zuckerberg, et. al.) have made waiting a sin, a thing of the past that we can and should avoid at all cost. Yet, Advent is a waiting game, a season to prepare for the arrival of a life changing baby. He isn't delivered via stork or drone, but through a teen mother. Mary had time to consider the promise growing within her. She came to welcome her calling and her baby. At Advent, we are invited to sing the Magnificat recorded in the Gospel of Luke with her.

We glorify the Lord and rejoice in God our Savior because his mercy extends to generations. He has brought down rulers from their thrones and lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things. He has helped his servant Israel from Abraham to his descendants. Mary takes the long view that all the waiting will be worth it; both the nine or ten months of pregnancy and the centuries of struggle. The baby is the first blow against a mighty empire. Jesus will eventually undercut the Romans (even while suffering at their hands). What is humble and lowly will be lifted up—in time. What will appear to be defeat on the cross is actually the most important step towards eternal victory, for God's kingdom to replace the earthly kingdom of Rome or whoever would presume to dominate the world. Our waiting will be rewarded. Patience is a virtue worth cultivating (especially within a culture of instant gratification).

During Advent, we sing, "O Come O Come Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel." We recognize that we are bound by our limitations, trapped in some form of historical crossroads. We need to be rescued, freed, and delivered by God With Us. Amazon may deliver what we want, but it may not be what we need. There are cravings that can be solved in thirty minutes or less. There are interests we have that can be piqued by overnight delivery. But our deepest longings and heartfelt cries may not be met by an octocopter. It may takes years or at least seasons of life, before they are satisfied. Advent is a season of waiting, watching, and anticipating far more than a package. And while a babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, could potentially be delivered via Prime Air, the Scriptures suggest he's more likely to be found in a stable or a back alley, amongst those who couldn't afford a hotel room or even two-day delivery. O Come O Come Emmanuel and save us from our insatiable need for speed.

Craig Detweiler directs the Center for Entertainment, Media, and Culture at Pepperdine University. Connect with him @craigdetweiler on Twitter

Jeff Bezos is a brilliant man and a remarkable marketer. He realizes that in the wake of Steve Jobs’ death, the role of technologist-in-chief is up for grabs. And while Google is offering us Glass and Facebook and Twitter are aggregating our friends and followers, Amazon is appealing to a different felt need—for speed. By turning 60 Minutes into a platform to announce “drone delivery,” Bezos shifted the news cycle towards Amazon on the same day that Christians have traditionally initiated Advent. While people of faith were shifting into a season of waiting and anticipation, Amazon offered the promise of “Prime Air” that could go above and beyond UPS or Federal Express to deliver our choices in an even faster, more convenient manner—via octocopters.

It doesn’t really matter when this innovation will arrive. By getting us talking and thinking about the virtues of Amazon’s delivery methods, Bezos enjoyed a miraculous public relations coup. On the eve of Cyber Monday, social media was already abuzz about Amazon. Bezos turned Google, Facebook, Twitter, and traditional media into his personal delivery service, bringing us all the good news that Amazon was primed to deliver what we wanted, where we wanted, when we wanted. Consumer gratification is completed in the land of Amazonia, not the Fiefdom of Facebook or Appleton or the Twitterverse.

In researching Amazon for my new book, iGods (of course, now for sale via Amazon), I was surprised to discover that Amazon was never really about books. Bezos was always more of a numbers person looking for a way to leverage the power of the Internet. He left a lucrative position on Wall Street because he saw how the aggregating ability of online databases could revolutionize almost any industry. Bezos chose bookselling because of the inefficiencies built into the existing system. There were so many books in print that no store could possibly stock them all. So even as superstores like Barnes and Noble and Borders were knocking out small, independent booksellers by offering consumers more choices, Bezos understood that even the giants were only capable of carrying a tiny percentage of the titles available. What if Amazon could offer more choices than a superstore and more personalized recommendations than the local bookstore? Look at the promise embedded within Amazon’s logo—choices from A to Z with a smile.

While other Internet startups were already attempting to stake a claim as the world’s biggest online bookstore, Amazon was offering both choice and convenience. Bezos understood that in the Internet era, speed with a smile was amongst our highest felt needs. We wanted to be served, fast. Amazon survived and thrived amidst the boom and bust of Internet flameouts because Bezos pursued the long tail. He took smaller profits over the long haul, investing in infrastructure that made faithful delivery and counterintuitive experiments like Amazon Prime possible. Prime Air is a logical extension of the values we’ve all come to espouse—we want limitless choices delivered as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Amidst all the hubbub accompanying the announcement of Prime Air, plenty of jokes about shooting down each other’s delivery drones (only to discover goods like Pampers inside) followed. And how amazing to think that a technology we’ve come to associate with airstrikes in the Middle East could shift from “death from above” to showers of blessings. Kudos to Bezos and his team for having the imagination to repurpose war machines into shopping carts and delivery trucks (that is almost comparable to beating swords into plowshares).

While it may seem far-fetched to think that our airspace could even be cleared for that many octocopters to land, it does turn Amazon even more into our personal Santas. Amazon has almost actualized the childhood promise of Santa Claus, responding to our list-making by landing on our roofs and dropping gifts down our chimneys, while we sleep. In Amazonia, every morning is like Christmas with freshly delivered gifts ready to be opened. Amazon puts a big smile on all our childlike faces.

Some may protest that life isn’t like that. We don’t all get what we want, when we want. Yet, Amazon is already awfully close to making it so (if we have the means to pay for such convenience). We may bemoan the consumerism that such options encourage, yet we must remember that we call them consumer goods, not consumer bads. We love choice. We love bargains. We love convenience. Bezos doesn’t expect any of those virtues to ever go out of style (and neither do I). What I find vexing is the timing.

On the same day that Christians are called to enter a time of waiting and anticipation, Amazon suggested with Prime Air that we should never have to wait. The iGods (Bezos, Jobs, Zuckerberg, et. al.) have made waiting a sin, a thing of the past that we can and should avoid at all cost. Yet, Advent is a waiting game, a season to prepare for the arrival of a life changing baby. He isn’t delivered via stork or drone, but through a teen mother. Mary had time to consider the promise growing within her. She came to welcome her calling and her baby. At Advent, we are invited to sing the Magnificat recorded in the Gospel of Luke with her.

We glorify the Lord and rejoice in God our Savior because his mercy extends to generations. He has brought down rulers from their thrones and lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things. He has helped his servant Israel from Abraham to his descendants. Mary takes the long view that all the waiting will be worth it; both the nine or ten months of pregnancy and the centuries of struggle. The baby is the first blow against a mighty empire. Jesus will eventually undercut the Romans (even while suffering at their hands). What is humble and lowly will be lifted up—in time. What will appear to be defeat on the cross is actually the most important step towards eternal victory, for God’s kingdom to replace the earthly kingdom of Rome or whoever would presume to dominate the world. Our waiting will be rewarded. Patience is a virtue worth cultivating (especially within a culture of instant gratification).

During Advent, we sing, “O Come O Come Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel.” We recognize that we are bound by our limitations, trapped in some form of historical crossroads. We need to be rescued, freed, and delivered by God With Us. Amazon may deliver what we want, but it may not be what we need. There are cravings that can be solved in thirty minutes or less. There are interests we have that can be piqued by overnight delivery. But our deepest longings and heartfelt cries may not be met by an octocopter. It may take years or at least seasons of life, before they are satisfied. Advent is a season of waiting, watching, and anticipating far more than a package. And while a babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, could potentially be delivered via Prime Air, the Scriptures suggest he’s more likely to be found in a stable or a back alley, amongst those who couldn’t afford a hotel room or even two-day delivery. O Come O Come Emmanuel and save us from our insatiable need for speed.

Craig Detweiler directs the Center for Entertainment, Media, and Culture at Pepperdine University. Connect with him @craigdetweiler on Twitter.

I should probably confess my bias at the outset: I love kids.

As a kid, I loved babies. In middle school, I told my mother that I couldn't wait to be a dad. My sisters and I vowed with no small amount of chutzpah over against Providence that we would each produce four children. (This, in part, was a way to address the certainty that the Almighty had unjustly dealt us only one first cousin. Our children would not suffer the same fate.)

My plan was to get married in my early 20s, then to start having babies by 25, which, I thought, was a perfect age to bring little people into the world. As it turned out, I married just shy of 36 and by God's grace I saw my first baby at 39.

While I wait for God to give us more children, I take pleasure in the children God has already given me and my sisters' children, four of Christine's, two of Stephanie's, whom I have thoroughly enjoyed 15 years now. I also enjoy pretty much anybody else's kids, which is why I had the time of my life during my first stint of service in our church nursery.

As I mentioned to some friends afterward, while half the 1 and 2-year-olds regarded my beard warily, the other half used plastic farm and kitchen utensils to comb it. I'm not exactly sure why that made me so happy, but it did; it was kids being kids and my beard being put to good use.

All morning long, I repeated, "It's ok, it's ok" (to soothe frayed little people nerves); "Please be gentle" (to encourage less semi-savage behavior as some of the more enthusiastic kids made a grab for another child's toy); and "Excellent tea!" (as we celebrated our never-ending tea party).

One of my favorite parts was leading the children in a rousing version of "The Wheels on the Bus," as they gnawed their Cheez-Its and cookie snack. Seriously, I could have played musical theater director nonstop.

A few years back, while on staff as an associate pastor at Hope Chapel in Austin, Texas, I organized a conference for artists, pastors, theologians, and educators. At the event, a mild argument broke out between a panelist on stage and a member of the audience regarding artists' responsibilities to the church. It was a question I had felt keenly, as someone who had worn not only a pastor's hat but also an artist's hat (chiefly in the theater arts).

Long story short, the issue of whether artists should volunteer in the nursery came up. One person argued strongly against it, the other argued boldly for it.

The former maintained that artists should be allowed to serve the church in other ways, mainly, by letting them do what they do best: make art and by that to invite us to revel in the abundance of God's creation. Artists are there to imagine the world otherwise, as God does, and, in a manner unique to the language of the arts, to advance God's shalom throughout all parts of society, including the life of the church.

It was hard enough, he argued, for artists to make work, let alone make good work. The fact that fellow Christians often dismissed the vocation of artists as largely irrelevant made it more difficult for artists to fulfill their God-given purposes. So the usual sentiment went: "Set aside your silly artistic preoccupations and do something spiritually useful: Help out the kids ministry." Our panelist thought this sentiment was theologically wrong-headed and disastrous even to so-called spiritual matters.

The latter, fully supportive of an artist's calling, insisted that artists might learn a thing or two about human nature from babies. They might recover a sense of wonder from toddlers. Their imaginations might be ignited by the playful spirit of the little people that surrounded them.

More importantly, theologically speaking, to serve in the nursery was a way to love the most vulnerable and least able to return the service. It was a way to die to a false sense of self, a sense of being "special," removed from the ordinary, often tedious, context of the Spirit's work in the church, and to discover a new self, a fuller sense of self, found within and not despite the motley body of Christ. To perform such "family chores" allowed us to be family, no longer isolated and alone. Artists might acquire the virtues of humility and generosity in such service, which, this person thought, could be a reasonably good condition in which to create.

I'm with the latter, while profoundly sympathetic to the concerns of the former. I think serving in the nursery, as ho-hum as it might feel on some days, is a win-win for artists and the church, for all the reasons mentioned above. It has helped me not take myself so seriously. The kids are fun, crying and laughing in the span of 10 seconds, not caring about the things that often make me feel insecure—what school I did or did not attend, what my family lineage is, how (un)impressive I am, or who I know and who knows me. They're present to you with a guileless immediacy, unless a cool Tonka truck suddenly steals them away.

They're sweet kids most of the time, and there is always somebody else in the room who can change a poopy diaper if you're not ready for that kind of scatological fellowship.

Serving in the nursery can also be an incredible way to love their parents, or grandparents, or foster parents, or adopted parents, but especially their mothers, who often live lives of quiet desperation.

While the church nursery is certainly a change of pace from the life that I live Monday to Friday on the fourth floor of the Perkins library at Duke University, as I plow away on my dissertation, it's a welcomed change.

And while I realize that not everybody is in a season of life or in a condition where nursery service is viable, I do think these wee ones deserve the best. Whether it'll enhance my dissertation-writing powers, time will tell (ditto for my artmaking powers). Whether I am the best or not for the task, I can take comfort that my beard will somehow prove useful to the nursery ministry, either as a stress reliever for a crying child or a pretend arable field for an imaginary farmer.

I have loved getting to hang out with these kids, and I'm looking forward to my next turn. But you probably knew that from the outset.

W. David O. Taylor is a Doctor of Theology candidate at Duke Divinity School. He blogs at artspastor.blogspot.com.

After years of struggle, I came to the light. Specifically, the soft glow of my smartphone screen.

I had tried over and over again to make Bible-reading and daily devotions a regular habit, only to end up shamefully watching my Bible collect dust on my bedside table. Then came the digital world of Bible resources, right on my iPhone, which beckoned to scriptural newsletters, blogs, and apps.

For me, this digital hallelujah moment happened through the Park Forum's devotional blog, 843 Acres. The blog sends out daily emails, following the annual Bible reading plan of Robert Murray M'Cheyne. They hit my smartphone's inbox by 6 a.m. every weekday. As soon as I turn off my alarm, open my New York Times app, and refresh my inbox, it's there.

At this point, my routine has become common among Christians, particularly Christian millennials. Our generation's adoption of social and digital platforms has ushered in a new age of connectivity for our faith. The Barna Group reports that 70 percent of these digital natives read Scripture online. If we don't have the answer to a question, we Google it. We multitask and switch digital platforms to find the information we need.

Yet as much as I love the bite-size format of my email devotional, I can't shy away from the lack of intentionality that pervades the opening, refreshing, and scanning of my emails – even when I'm reading and meditating on Scripture. Or the slavish attention I lavish on my inbox, where a new message always awaits. To co-opt a well-known T.S. Eliot quote, is this how a prayer is to end, not with an amen but a buzz in the pocket?

Even leaders and entrepreneurs within the tech community are beginning to question the ethics of a force that has changed our ability to truly listen and be present. They're bringing up relevant questions for young Christians whose faith practices take them onto their phones and laptops.

Some ask whether the lure of technology has negatively impacted young people's brains, decreasing their ability to sustain undivided attention. Or as one tech writer asks, "Are all the modern devices and digital conveniences we have at our disposal – from the web and social media to smartphones and tablets – making us more distracted and less able to concentrate?"

Perhaps. But it's not too late to change our attitudes. Just as technology enthusiasts have rushed to embrace such axioms as "stay lean" and "work smarter, not harder," a countercultural conversation advocates meditation and mindfulness within digital culture. This latter conversation by no means supersedes the wisdom and directive of the Bible, but still has something to teach us. For if "culture informs technology development and then technology moves culture forwards," a new attitude towards technology can strengthen how we use it to practice our faith.

How do we temper our mediated reality, one awash by distraction, forgetfulness and stress, with mindfulness and intentionality, without retreating to a Wi-Fi free Silence Room? Bethany Jenkins, a member of the Redeemer Presbyterian congregation in New York City, who cofounded the 843 Acres site, reminds me, "Any tool is what you make of it." My email devotional is not the problem. I am.

Taking cues from the mindfulness discourse of late in the media, I've come up with some suggestions of my own to guide my digitized devotional time:

– Create a habit: This is the first step. So much of my lackadaisical approach to carving out a quiet moment to read the Bible and reflect had to do with a lack of scheduling and prioritization. Luckily, (and I don't mean to be glib here), there's an app for that. Do you fall into the 80 percent group that sleep with their phone next to their bed? Set a reminder for yourself to read, meditate and pray when you first wake up. For those not quite happy with Apple's built-in reminder app, download an app such as Bugger that will trigger annoying notifications to remind you throughout your day.

– Memorize Scripture: This is a hard one for me, but Mobilize Faith gamifies the approach by setting up review quizzes, fill-in-the-blank games and an accountability system to help you retain what you've memorized. Loath to download yet another app? Set a Bible verse as your wallpaper. If you check your phone as much as I do, you may surprise yourself by how much you end up memorizing.

– Remember that quality trumps quantity: Most email-based devotionals have traded in long-winded paragraphs and thematic chapter designs for brevity and personalization. Bible Gateway offers a plethora of daily devotional guides that target men and women, leaders and inspirational types. You can even opt for a "classic" devotional to devour the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and C.S. Lewis, coupled with a relevant Bible passage. 843 Acres takes the compact approach. Each devotional is curated to around 400 words, the average word count limit applied to the length of a New York Times op-ed piece. "Sometimes, 400 words are great for people who aren't readers," Jenkins said. "They may not read a book, but they might read a short 400 word reflection."

In our quest to quiet our hearts, pray and meditate, we need to remember that word count does not a saint make. It is the attitude, time and attention we lend our reading, the habit of obedience that should, Lord willing, grow our knowledge of who we are and who God is.

But let's not forget. Should your phone keep on buzzing while you attempt to read your digital devotion, just turn it off. Says Jenkins, "We need to manage our hearts better than our emails."

Rachel Jones is a writer and co-editor of Industry of One. She is based out of Brooklyn, New York.