Unemployed Theologian

Party at Jay Gatsby's A few weeks ago I found these words at the bottom of my ticket to George Fox's spring formal, a dance themed after the novel and fast-approaching film  The Great Gatsby . I would say loosely themed, considering the DJ offered no tunes from the roaring twenties but instead pumped the standard Top-40-techno-dance-hip-hop fusion, but having now seen the movie it was actually pretty on the nose. In any case I initially found it a bit odd that my Christian college would theme its dance around the bacchanals described in F. Scott Fitzgerald's anti-tribute to classic American excess, but I made no large fuss about it and indeed had a splendid time, cutting the rug with a few dear chums whom I will miss very much. It was no party at Jay Gatsby's though. No, it couldn't hold a candle to those raucous scenes depicted in the film, to the hyperreal colors, the impossibly shiny sequins, the manic, untethered energy, and no one in attendance at our dance w...

It's the most wonderful time of the year, or so they tell me. I've said it too, sang it, and I believe it mostly. To be perfectly frank, though, I'm not sure what it means anymore. Why is it the most wonderful time of the year? Peace on earth, good will toward men and all that? But I'm afraid those things don't seem terribly true right now. No, the Christmas spirit has been kept at bay by the cold specter of tragedy as the television screen paints a picture of hell on earth and ill will toward all. Americans taste and see that all is not right with the world as each image from the Newtown massacre flits before our eyes: lives taken at the hands of a deranged killer. The most innocent among us (young children), as well as some of the noblest (teachers), gone too soon. It is maddening, sickening, and unbelievable yet tragically true. Newtown is only the epicenter of these tremors, however, as unfathomable loss and unshakable terror ripple across our country. Bomb th...