Except...

Information I gleaned from field trips to the Smithsonian museums didn't really mesh against what I was taught in private school, church, and in my Bob Jones-breed Christian home. Answers from my childhood "experts" seemed flippant, curt, and imminently unsatisfying.

Years later, I met and grew to love my parents-in-law (and before them, my brilliant, well-read, think-outside-the-box husband!). The whole family valued independent thinking and had the utmost respect for science's contributions to our understanding of our existence. They all encouraged me to explore and test different ways of thinking, much to my growth and amazement. Science, and three people who deeply loved me, quietly tugged at my heart.

But, the icing on the cake came when my pastor preached a sermon titled "Isn't Creation Just a Myth?", a clear assault on all that Darwin stood for. You see, my pastor, whom we still greatly respect and study under, called Darwin's theory of evolution "a religious system" that is "full of lies" on that fateful Sunday. Was my husband angry! For weeks afterwards, I listened to his diatribes. Eventually, he went to talk to our pastor one-one one, and eventually came to some kind of resolution in his own heart and mind on this volatile issue. I had only seen that kind of passion in hard-core fundamentalists before!

So when I saw Giberson's Saving Darwin at the bookstore, I was chomping at the bit. I longed to resolve the obvious tension playing out in my intellectual and personal life. Besides, the search for Truth should never intimidate us, especially as Christ-followers!

Saving Darwin covers a lot of ground. Giberson begins with an honest assessment of Charles Darwin's paradigms and the ultimate break in his faith (which had absolutely nothing to do with his brand of science). He then moves comprehensively to an in-depth look at evolution's dark side, its abuses and extremes (think genocide) and slips easily into an anecdotal recount of the Scopes "Monkey Trial". In the blink of an eye, he leads us though a systematic dismantling of The Genesis Flood, a fundamentalist's "science" book, co-authored by one my home-town's Biblical heroes, John C. Whitcomb. Giberson clearly demonstrates that the creation/evolution argument is a culture, rather than an academic war, for evolution bears out its scientific validity in a number of disciplines including biology, geology, genetics, and paleontology. On the other hand, young-earth creationists have virtually no support from mainstream scientists and in fact, find themselves a bit isolated (and conveniently academically myopic), with a small, but fiercely dedicated army of anti-evolutionists.

Few books have challenged my faith, my core beliefs, and my intellect more than this one. Many times, I found myself nodding with a clear understanding of Giberson's science, immediately accompanied by stabs of fundamentalist offense and guilt. In the end, however, I could find nothing in this work that contradicted Jesus' story of redemption for His fallen people. (That being said, I don't know that I could find much in this work that disagrees with any of the world's three major religions.) Giberson repeatedly warns both "sides" of the creation/evolution battle that the existing dichotomy between their theories is "wrong" and that the current polarized positions "are not the only two options". He compels his readers to re-work their understanding of God's creativity and our place in the universe to match what can be empirically studied. And he warns against twisting the Bible's ancient wisdom "to speak to a modern issue it never intended to address."

On a minor note, Giberson never fully engages his reader on an emotional level, other than his brushes with wry humor. This man is clearly a scholar, not a salesman. He does take one brief rabbit trail into his own personal belief system. He writes, "As a purely practical matter, I have compelling reasons to believe in God." He then describes his parents as "deeply committed Christians", his wife and children as "believing in God", most of his friends as "believers", and his job that he loves at "a Christian college". His relationship with our Creator never reaches much beyond his summation that "abandoning belief in God would be disruptive, sending my life completely off the rails." That's all? That is the basis for his faith? I wanted more.

In his conclusion, Giberson offers the book's powerful redemption, an admission that won me over: "Perhaps the unfolding of history includes a steady infusion of divine creativity under the scientific radar. Perhaps the meaning we encounter in so many different places and so many different ways is not simply an accident of our biology, but a hint that the universe is more than particles and their interactions." My belief in Jesus' plan for our universe's reconciliation and the wonder and mystery of His methods remain fully in tact, but will be, hereafter, combined with a respect for modern academia and science's advances.

Saving Darwin will make a great gift for my dear father-in-law; he will find it brilliant and engaging. I probably won't, however, buy it for my dear pastor. On second thought... it might be just the challenge he needs.

As always, Driscoll generously sprinkles his explanations with hundreds of specific Bible references. This author is passionate about Truth and has a gift for bringing Christ's work alive in poignantly relevant stories. His letters, each an independent chapter, address issues such as child abuse, terminal illness and even spiritual complacency through a lens which allows the reader to uniquely see how Jesus answers, with His death and resurrection, their specific concerns.

In this work, Driscoll and Breshears offer an easy-to-understand theology on meaty doctrines such as expiation, justification, and revelation. For example, in a letter to his friend "Thomas", a man driven by sexual addictions, Driscoll draws from I John and II Peter clearly demonstrating his friend's slavery to physical cravings, lust and pride. He then shows Thomas the beautiful power of the cross to redeem us from the curse of the law, the power of Satan, our sinful flesh, and being dead to God. The author brilliantly moves on to show us how Jesus redeemed us to life in Heaven with God, Jesus' return, and a resurrected body.

One of my favorite chapters was Driscoll's letter to his 18-month-old son, a convincing discourse on "unlimited limited atonement". In this letter, Driscoll skillfully weaves his unique perspective on atonement, a combination of Calvinist and Arminian views. Driscoll and Breshears challenge their readers to take a look at free will and God's election, in harmony: "Jesus' death was sufficient to save anyone and, subjectively, efficient only to save those who repent of their sin and trust in him."

Death by Love quite possibly contains the clearest, most understandable, explanations I've ever read on all that Christ's death and resurrection accomplished. These authors are able to explain the cure to our modern-day sins and show us the ultimate example of Love with the unchanging Truth of the cross. Death by Love infused me with fresh hope in Jesus' promise that He has already defeated Satan and death!

Looking at the concert schedule, one wouldn't expect this event to have anything to do with a Christian college. Lupe Fiasco, The Hold Steady, The War on Drugs, Over the Rhine and David Bazan were the highlighted shows of the weekend. So what's so "Christian" about this event, anyway?

Author and teacher David Dark may have some insight into why an event like the Festival of Faith and Music exists. During his workshop at the fest, he said of music: "...you have it in your head, but you don't always pay attention to it. When you pay attention, then something happens in your mind."

The festival is not concerned with simply entertaining, but purposefully presents workshops and seminars to help attendees think about what it means to sincerely engage with music. This festival takes music seriously. It doesn't look at electronica as work out music, or punk as a forgotten expression of youthful rebellion. The Festival of Faith and Music is attempting to strike at the heart of what happens when Lupe Fiasco sings about American terrorists, and why Dave Bazan says the f-word in his songs. The Festival of Faith and Music is about the truth of music.

The hope is attendees will experience culture without any form of elitism, be that indie-snobbery or self-righteous religiosity. Christian or not, every person in the world experiences something special within themselves when they're at a concert. It's a topic worthy of dialogue, and the festival's purpose every two years is to spawn those conversations.

In 2007, the fest brought in Sufjan Stevens, Emmylou Harris and Neko Case. and posed the question: "is it possible that not only Christians are able to create music of great cultural and spiritual importance?"

...

This year's event was even more open-minded and fascinating than its predecessors. The highlight of the fest was a meet-up between Lupe Fiasco and renowned thinker and author, Cornel West. In an intellectually engaging discussion about hip-hop, Lupe spoke about what it means for him to interact with art. "The world is a mess, and we're products of that world. But you have to check your mind and soul to find out what the garbage, what the mess is," he said.

As Lupe reminds, awareness is a key principle in music. When a musician composes a piece of music, it takes all his or her experience and skill to put that work together. When a listener consumes this work, they should do so with the utmost appreciation for the energy and heart the creator initially put into it.

David Bazan accentuates this point in saying, "whatever is true, as long as you're thoughtful and careful, will present itself to you." Without mention of the gospel, the speakers and artists at the Festival of Faith and Music showed nothing but respect to the Christian faith. Whether or not they're Christians was of less importance. Lupe Fiasco told Cornel West, "I separated culture from religion, and then religion from spirituality." Setting out three clear distinctions between culture, religion and spirituality, Lupe is a perfect headliner for this unique festival. "I started to go off what I felt, not what I thought."

Too often, American culture blends spirituality with entertainment, and the result is crude and dishonest drivel. Engaging with music can be a spiritual phenomenon, but is not one to be exploited. There isn't much discussion of mainstream Christian music here, as the event is interested in real art and cultural relevance.

"I believe Radiohead. I think they're telling the truth, and I want to be in on it," David Dark said. It is not a specific faith that keeps this festival running, but an openness to the possibility that faith could be bigger than what most Christian rock bands sell. God might be a topic of a Switchfoot song, but that's not to say He can't be just as important in an iconoclastic Arcade Fire track ,as well.

Song may be composed of metaphors, lies, and facts. None of these things are in and of themselves "truth." But after a weekend at the Festival of Faith and Music, one can argue these three things (when indecipherable amongst each other) all point to truth. This truth is not Christianity, but is a God who requires no elitism to experience Him, only a creative spirit.

All of the bands I was excited to see provided me with an excellent set (The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, The Antlers, Ume, Loney Dear, and more). Titus Andronicus was the only band of whom I had no knowledge that served up music I will chase them down upon my return home. There's a lot happening in the contemporary music scene that has me full of both anticipation and anxiety, and much of it on display at SXSW.

I went, once again, as a completely badge-less, wristband-less, and pass-less poor freelance journalist who had to RSVP for any of the key shows he had any hope of entering, while hoping that his few (but strong) PR contacts could get him into other shows. Thus, I passed over (amongst others) the well-attended Hot Freaks and Pitchfork day shows for other day shows where I knew I wouldn't have to combat the hordes of annoying people there just to chat and not actually watch music. Thus, I managed to partake of a decent portion of the same acts that played the big showcases, but without having to wait in long lines or deal with too many irritating hipster clones (with their Kanye-styled wardrobes). Also, without having to be embarrassed about my lack of a cool, access-granting badge.

From my vantage point as an un-embedded reporter, I would surmise that SXSW 2009 was representative of the economy as a whole: the quality was not diminished, but the size, enormity, and scope of the event certainly were. I took several strolls up and down 6th Street (and requisite adjoining streets), making my way from show to show, and the crowds looked less imposing than last year. Moreover, when you can see more than a few empty/quiet venues in the heart of the event, you know that the general populace's pocketbooks are a bit thin.

On the whole, there looked to be fewer day shows and nighttime showcases, which only served to reinforce one's need to either have a badge/wristband, RSVP far in advance, or be willing to stand in line for the big-name shows. Also of note was less free stuff - food, alcohol, swag, etc. - to go around at the mid-to-lower-level events, and what was present was in diminished quantities. For folks like me, this definitely drove up expenditures compared to years past. Granted, there were still events - the vaunted Fader Fort (put on by Levi's) or the Red Bull Moon Tower Party, for example - where you could go for all manner of hip bands, free stuff, and proof that some aspects of the current economy are doing just fine (clothing and energy drinks are obviously impervious to sundry banking crises).

The flip side to this is that the bands that were in attendance (also fewer than last year) had a greater number of chances to play more shows, thus increasing the average attendee's chances to see a favored band at least once. Groups like The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Chairlift, and Vivian Girls played multiple shows across the course of SXSW 2009, earning them an even greater opportunity to increase the buzz surrounding them. Whether you buy into any given band's buzz or not, it was great to not have to worry what show you were going to as there were plenty of prospects to see any number of trendy bands and form your own opinion.

Musically, it seems that samplers, keyboards, and synthesizers are firmly entrenched in the contemporary music scene, as bands as diverse as Akron Family, Telepathe, and The Antlers incorporated those instruments into their live setups. Granted, many of these bands used them in the more traditional format - Princeton had one guy whom seemed to actually know how to play the keyboard - but many others are employing the technology to create quirky, arty sampled sounds to round out the band's sound, while others are just trying to look and sound as weird and cool as possible. I'm not dissing the use of such an instrument/tool in any given band's repertoire, but I challenge bands (like I challenged Anamanaguchi) to either learn how to play the piano or learn how to create beats organically in a live context. I want more from my 3rd-wave post-punk than some energetic teens and twenty-somethings playing retread rock that sounds danceable and hip just because they're playing over pre-recorded beats.

The other sparkling piece of analysis (while not entirely original) regarding the event I might could provide would be this: with Rolling Stone now a physically smaller magazine, Paste having moved to a bi-monthly status, and so many other print magazines going out of business or totally online, the power of the blogosphere to make or break bands is at a peak. My contention is that maybe it has peaked, in that, though the advertising dollars are out there, they can only be spread in so many directions. Thus, with the internet being as diverse as it already is (much less being theoretically endless), even the high-profile websites and blogs that curated the big-time events at SXSW 2009 aren't the all-powerful tastemakers that magazines like Rolling Stone and Creem once were. There are simply too many of us out there for only a mere handful to hold all of the power - oligarchies and plutocracies might exist in contemporary politics, but the internet is much too democratic for that.

All of that aside, SXSW 2009 was enjoyable for me. I was pleased to find a number of quality rock bands out there that seem blissfully unaware of any buzz or hype, while others are hoping to ride their newfound notoriety as long as the current flavor of the month still has a hint of taste left in it. It's no different than any other festival of its kind - several days of loud music, greasy food, copious alcohol, and a lack of quality sleep make for quite a heady brew.

Maybe it seems lofty to say that a band, some sounds and some words could save us from death - but the music that we heard that night in the small Western-themed room full of leather boots, tin ads for beer and paper ads for rodeos pinned by rusty nails to splintered wood, seemed to come out of man who had spent his former life in the body of an Appalachian minister and the other life as Buddy Holly. This concert felt something like church, but nothing like a worship service. I heard Elvis have an epiphany from two rows back as a heavy-set woman and a man with a bad haircut made out to my right. I remembered all of the words from Ash Wednesday ("Do you ever wonder where you go when you die/Emile's Vietnam in the sky" and "And here we go/All the night without love" and "No one will survive/Ash Wednesday alive.") and was made glad by the honest joy and salvation coming out of his guitar, out of his mouth, out of his eyes blocked by his thick long hair, out of unknown and uncalculated certainty in the eternal.

Some of the tunes were taken directly from the hymnal, but given a wonderful rockabilly treatment. I had never heard these songs, seeing as I am not ninety-years old and grew up in a church where a majority of the songs played were written after 1985, expect for "Blood of the Lamb" which was played at the end of every sermon for what I assumed was emotional effect - but it never did anything for me. This was a jubilee. Now, writing this, watching cars role past on I-90, I can hear perfectly Elvis singing, "I don't let doomsday bother me, will you let it bother you...I do not plan to die," and the band and the unchurched crowd yelling, "Nor should you plan to die!" My heart jumped. Even the public lovers to my right stopped licking each other's ears for a second. This sounded like hope. This sounded like joy. There was something beautiful hearing a man who has spun despair and anger and fear on my turntable for the past two years now seeming to have some kind of grip on the unknown future and an appreciation for the shaky past. In the jangley "123 Goodbye" you can see a man on his deathbed, saying, "It was happy, 123, it was sad, 123, we were happy once, when we were sad." In other words, we were glad when we were together, no matter what the circumstances. He says to that same woman, "When I go to heaven, I know you'll go with me." This is not "wonder" anymore. These log cabin rock tunes are about those parts of death and the parts of dark clouds and pain that we somehow find to be beautiful.

The stage could hardly hold them. Elvis and his six guitars were pushed the far left side. Brigham Bough almost knocked over every piece of equipment as he moved around with his bass guitar lifted high on his chest. Wyndham Boylan-Garnett had to strategize as he got up from his organ to play trombone on certain tunes like "Doomsday" and "While You Were Sleeping." Nick Kinsey was pushed to the back with his drum kit, but somehow found enough space for his strapped bass drum that he played like a lawless parade conductor on "Doomsday" and "I Heard Your Voice in Dresden." When these men played, it was as though they were taken over by the spirit of rock and roll, which has many saints - it is a strong spirit.

Just like Elvis "heard the voice in Dresden, and it follow him everywhere, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah," the clanging drums, the howling organs, the American Graffiti guitar sounds and the joyous combination of everything followed Christye and I back out into the cold, and we sang "Glory, Glory," by ordering two plates of nachos, being unafraid to die.

However, if the amazing music on Bromst is any indication, it would seem that Dan Deacon used Dylan's original sonic experiment as a focal point for setting about to experimenting with his own range and limits to his style. Anyone with the slightest of pinkie toe on the pulse of pop music culture is familiar with Deacon's frenetic, kinetic brand of dance-pop and the frenzied live performances of his songs. But immediately upon the first play-through of this new record, it's readily apparent that Deacon made the conscious decision to set aside a few of his electronic devices and invite along a few of his friends to contribute their aptitude on more traditional musical instruments.

The result is the most grown-up set of songs that Deacon has ever created: Bromst is filled with xylophones, horns, strings, pianos, and a vast assortment of pitched percussion appliances, giving his synthesizers and electrical oddities a heretofore untapped depth that is rich, organic, and instantly accessible. The same sense of playful exuberance that carried Spiderman Of The Rings to the top of many best-of lists in 2007 is still more than present, but the breadth and detail of songcraft displayed here should vault Deacon to a new zenith in the indie lexicon.

The album begins with "Build Voice" and the song does exactly that as it provides the listener with the first glimpse into the new voices that will be joining Deacon on the record. Tracks like "Snookered" and "Woof Woof" find Deacon channeling Win Butler by making dance-pop in the mold of indie-rock - the songs start with a peaceably slow tempo, build to a driving middle with big drums and walking piano arpeggios, and then growing to an epic climax.

"Of The Mountain" is my favorite cut on the record as a xylophone and tribal percussion meet with Deacon's synthesizers to create a huge, groove-laden, trippy anthem. The funk-laced dance-pop of "Surprise Stefani" is also worth noting, as it pulses and builds with an intense energy worthy of any dance floor, yet ends on a light, sugary note. Bromst comes to a fitting conclusion with "Get Older," as the myriad tastes, tones, and textures that fill the album crash into each other on a singularly tremendous dance number.

All told, it appears that Dan Deacon has truly hit his stride on Bromst - it's a new hybrid form of symphonic dance-pop (post-dance-rock?!?) that might alienate the old fans, but stands to attract a multitude of newer ones . To put a finer definition to my claim, I would have to say that Deacon has cast aside his hyperactive, court jester routine to reveal an accomplished auteur worthy of any accolades (who still enjoys having a good time). So what if "Deacon went acoustic?" The music world might be all the better for it.

So while I was anticipating Case's follow-up, that sort of anticipation should be tempered. Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, while undeniably beautiful, was also especially appealing at a certain time. For me, it was iconic. And while it's entirely subjective, follow-ups to iconic albums usually fall flat for me. When Middle Cyclone was announced, I was prepared for disappointment.

I don't usually enjoy being wrong, but I'm happy to report Middle Cyclone is better than Fox Confessor Brings the Flood.

That's saying a lot, I know. Somehow, Neko Case, at least musically, keeps maturing. Middle Cyclone has plenty of Fox Confessor's lush arrangements and noir-ish lyrics dripping with dread. It has Case's voice, which I described in my review of Fox Confessor this way: "Blistering, smoldering, and seared into your skull...these are the only ways to describe Neko Case's vocals, throwbacks to a time before."

This time, though, there's more. "People Got a Lotta Nerve" is jangling Smiths-esque pop, filtered through Case's precise phrasing and boomed out in that crystalline wail. The track is pop worthy of any New Pornographers' record, but is unmistakable Neko Case. What's more, Case and her crew never overstay their welcome on any one track (well, except one). Regardless of pace, and there are plenty of slow tracks, hardly a song runs over the three minute mark.

There only one point where that's unfortunate, the all-to-brief "I'm an Animal", a rolling thunder of drums, a spectacular melody, and Case bellowing "Heaven will smell like the airport/But I may never get there to prove it/So let's not waste our time thinking how that ain't fair", which, you'll have to trust me, sounds better than it reads. It's the best track of the year so far, and I can't get enough.

Sounds aside, Neko Case's greatest leap in Middle Cyclone is a dramatic shift from storytelling to personal, introspective lyrics.

Take, for instance, the New York Times' piece on Case. She comes across, in the most polite sense, as incredibly self-centered and insecure, quick to blame others for every problem. Case has announced she is moving from Tucson to an unnamed town in Vermont because of Tucson's "social vampires":

"It's hard to imagine what these acts of social vampirism might consist of, but she prefers to leave them unspecified. She also asks that the Vermont town's name not be mentioned. 'I've had stalkers,' she says. Alexandria, Tacoma, Vancouver, Chicago, Tucson and, next, Vermont. Case hopes that her new community will prove to be her permanent home. You wonder."

In her songs, though, her hard shell fades. Take the title track, which could read as a direct apology to the smugness soaking through on the NY Times piece, had it not been recorded far earlier:

"Baby, why'm I worried now,
did someone make a fool of me
'fore I could show 'em how it's done?
Can't give up actin' tough,
it's all that I'm made of.
Can't scrape together quite enough
to ride the bus to the outskirts
of the fact that I need love."

Back on "I'm an Animal", Case postures again, singing "Yes, there are things I'm still so afraid of/But my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun". In light of Case's honest introspection elsewhere, the bravado of her claim is charming. Mainly, though, there's the hope that Neko Case isn't done embracing her brokenness.

Noble Beast, Bird's newest full-length release, in a lot of ways, is his attempt to be known to the world as a man who can do more than whistle loudly and pluck some strings to a neat little melody. This is not to say that those qualities don't appear on this record, but one can hear Bird taking many of the same ingredients and trying to make a whole new cake. The result is mostly delicious.

"Not a Robot, but a Ghost" and "Masterswarm" are the best examples of Bird trying to take a step outside the box built for him and show us what he can do with Latin-style beats, various computer noises, fuzzy guitars and hooks and bridges that land like trees in a windstorm. It would not surprise me in the slightest if someone decided to take his hand at remixing the dizzying beats of "Ghost" (which reminds me of a non-fat version of low-fat Radiohead tune) and I know for a fact that neither I nor any other critic has said that about a Andrew Bird track before.

The tracks above have a crowded, soiled feel, which is not true for most of the record. Most songs play like a ride on a skateboard on a smooth strip of sidewalk. The album artwork features a single tree in a overgrown field, which I think says a lot for this record. Tracks like "Nonemclature" and "Souverian" are allowed to slowly expand and rest and glide into the seven-minute mark without feeling like epics or absolute bores. "Effigy" is a romantic country waltz and the opening track, "Oh No" is a gentle pop ditty with enough bounce to push the album along, but not too much to make mellowest of mellow tracks a harsh surprise.

"Fitz and Dizzyspells" is a romping tune that keeps this album from being just a quiet reflection piece. To keep the cake analogy alive, this song, along with "Oh No", is the flour and sugar - the things that make a cake a cake; the things that make a Bird album a Bird album.

I have never been a fan of Bird as a lyricist. For the most part, he has just been someone that I can listen to when I need something that will entertain most and offend none. But for this album, I tried to listen well to what Bird has to say and the way he says them. And I was pleasantly surprised. Bird creates odd imagery to speak about familiar and universal feelings. "Effigy" is about the seeming dream of our relationships, about feeling lovingly connected to our peers, yet somehow alone, scared that everything could slip away: "Fake conversations on a non-existent telephone, like the words of a man whose spent too much time alone." "Nomenclature" is a beautiful tune about yearning for simpler times, but painfully aware that "Sometimes you have to pay to play with finger-paints and macrame" when the "colors have bled to grey."

Nobel Beast is a good-sized step in a good direction. He did not pull a Shepherd's Dog move and attempt a redefinition that moved too far too quickly. Musicians are just like us. They go through times when they question all that they are and all that they know, musically. Andrew Bird was wise in keeping enough of himself to make an album that personally progressive, appropriately sensitive and worth our fullest attention.

Campbell starts his memoir speeding through his childhood in rural Mississippi noting how distinct racial lines were for a white boy and their incongruence with what it meant to be Christian. In navigating his own questions, he points out that, "For the first time in Southern history, white support was not essential for the success of a movement for racial justice." He wonders, then, what is the reason and role of a white man in such a momentous moment in time, something I've often wondered myself as more and more progress is made regardless of my involvement. It's a question to consider in the diminishing whiteness of an even more multi-racial America than there was in Campbell's time.

My grade school was a racially integrated, but mostly white, school. My understanding of "black as different" wasn't really made known to me until a school camping trip. I was one of two white kids in a cabin full of black kids. The first morning I was asked by Roderick, "Yo, Kendall, you got a rake?" In my naivety I asked him what a "rake" was. The guy next to him said, "He ain't gonna have no rake cause he's white. He ain't got no afro." Which, when I look at it now, I am not so sure Roderick knew the difference in black and white either, until then. As we grew up the space between us would grow, insurmountable walls were built all because of the color of our skin. Where did we get those notions? They came from the adults around us, those same adults that grew up during Campbell's time.

A recurring voice in Campbell's memoir is T.J. Eaves, a black preacher from Alabama and Will Campbell's closest friend. He keeps Will and the reader on their toes, shaking things up just when one might feel self-important for not being like other white folks. In a debate about how much good black or white preachers are doing and God's role in Civil Rights, T.J. says:

I'm in civil rights trying to get my rights. God didn't keep them away from me. Man does that...There's a big difference between civil rights and God rights. God gave me the same rights He gave you. You take some of them away from me and that's your problem. That's between you and Him... there's something pretty selfish about trying so hard to get my rights. Maybe the Christian thing to be doing is to be handing over the rights I have... Brother Jesus is asking us to give up power.

For all the good that may or may not be achieved, white or black, T.J. is unwilling to let Christians push Jesus out of the center of the Movement. Later, T.J. says to Will, "I never did think of Jews as being white people. What I mean is, if Jesus had been white, he never would have been crucified... I mean we always prayed like Jesus was one of us." It makes one stop. Think.

During an exchange between Campbell and Jim Lawson - a prominent figure in the nonviolence aspect of the Civil Rights Movement - Lawson says: "There's more to the wrong than slavery." Campbell started the conversation mulling over something John Ross, the first elected leader of the Cherokee Nation, said: ''The perpetrator of a wrong never forgives his victims.'" Campbell then asks, "Is that what makes white folks behave like white folks? We can't forgive them for what we've done to them?" This might very well be the source of white-man's guilt. It, also, might be why so many white folks in America can't seem to understand why having a Black President is significant. To try and understand might mean looking at what being white in America has done to their humanity.

Campbell goes on, "Jim Lawson told me later that his ancestors were never slaves, and I told him that none of my ancestors ever owned any." So who then is responsible for forgiveness? Being that much of my ancestry is based in the South, I could bet that some of them owned slaves. What then is my part? Campbell goes on to make a point to Lawson: "By accident of birth, I can't forgive you for a wrong I never did to you...and you have to forgive me for not forgiving you for something you don't need forgiving for." I know, it gets confusing. Maybe this is part of the reason things move so slowly. Without saying it, Campbell shows that it is in relationship that these questions are answered.

These are just some of the moments in Campbell's book that take a hard honest look at many of the issues and questions we keep to ourselves. The answers aren't easy either, nor clear cut and simple. Most do seem to be found in relationships be it of any color. Regardless of how you feel, having a black man as President changes the landscape of America, and can't help but beg the question: where do we need to come clean with our past so we can move more fully into our future as a country, as a people?

Some of the last words Campbell writes consider what has and has not been gained in the Movement:

"The civil rights gains we have made are largely cosmetic," my old friend Kelly Miller Smith told me just before he died...I protested with a roll call of the improvements he had presided over..."But they still don't respect us," he said sadly. "Look at the television shows. Listen to the rhetoric on the streets. They still don't respect us."...Freedom is reconciliation. "They still don't love me." That was what my dying friend was telling me. Freedom is love... The Civil Rights Movement may be over for black people. It is far from over for whites.

The story is so bizarre that I had to keep reminding myself it was documented fact. A single mother living in Los Angeles in the late 1920s, Christine Collins (Jolie) returns from work one evening to find her 9-year-old son missing. The police are less than helpful, but five months later are delighted to present Ms. Collins with her son, in front of a crowd of reporters and photographers. There's only one problem. The boy is not her son. The LAPD refuses to acknowledge Collins' increasingly emphatic statements insisting that the boy is not her son. After Collins holds a press conference presenting evidence that the child could not possibly be hers, Police Captain J.J. Jones, played by Jeffrey Donovan, has her handcuffed and forcefully committed to a psychiatric hospital. Collins' fight for her son, her freedom, and justice within the LAPD comprise the heart of the story, but it's the disturbing dialog and actions of the police that inherently compel the viewer to ask, did this really happen? And when you realize it did, it sends chills up your spine.

Changeling screenwriter J. Michael Straczynski knew the story sounded like fiction, or at best embellished truth, so he cleverly inserted copies of actual newspaper clippings from the period between the printed script pages as he shopped the script around to remind the reader that this story was fact. Straczynski discovered Christine Collins' story among old documents at L.A. City Hall that were about to be burned, including critical transcripts of the case, and was instantly intrigued. By the time he completed his research, he'd gathered more than 6,000 pages of evidence.

In writing such a heavily factual film, has Straczynski created a new genre of filmmaking? I think he has--one in which historical truth is vehemently protected, as it would be in a documentary, but where the story told dramatically using actors and sets, as in a traditional fictional drama. The two complementary elements comprise a bridge between non-fiction and drama that hasn't been seen before in theatrical films. It's a clear step beyond the "based-on-a-true-story" films that allow for fictionalizing parts of the story at the whim of the writer or director, where the story's entertainment value trumps the value of fact. In the world of books and essays, creative non-fiction has emerged as a unique genre, telling factual stories in the creative manner previously reserved only for fiction. Is Changeling the first film version of the creative non-fiction genre?

I found Changeling compelling as a story, and intriguing as a film that courageously claims new ground. How much of our nation's history is lost to incinerators and unexamined archives, and how much of it could be brilliantly showcased and preserved through films such as this? The possibilities are limitless, but in Hollywood where profit drives the market, will filmmakers see the value? With the acclaim J. Michael Straczynski is getting as a result of Changeling, they just might.

Melanie Benedict blogs at www.lifeonatinyisland.blogspot.com

On "I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris," Moz declares his affection for the French capital, because "only stone and steel accept my love," yet does so by suggesting that, somehow, even the city's "Paris=Romance" stereotype cannot return his love. "All You Need Is Me" is a growling song that proclaims its brooding, selfish-is-as-selfish-does ethos in the opening line, "You hiss and groan and you constantly moan, but you don't ever go away, and that's because all you need is me." With the track "It's Not Your Birthday Anymore," Morrissey ably states what many people only wish they could declare to an annoying acquaintance, coworker, or family member - "It's not your birthday anymore. There's no need to be kind to you and the will to see you smile and be loved has now gone." And finally, on "I'm OK By Myself," the chorus asserts a classic Morrissey theme: "This might surprise you but, I'm OK by myself, and I don't need you or your morality to save me."

There is a dangerous and willful aggression that seeps out of nearly every track here, creating an almost uncomfortable, sinking feeling in the pit of the listener's stomach. Yet, it is exactly the discomfort - delivered via snarling instrumentation and compelling vocal delivery - that makes the album so superior, as Morrissey's words are smarter and more smugly sardonic than anything he's penned in years. And like the finest of wines and whiskeys, Morrissey's voice has only deepened and become richer with age. He hits nearly every note (especially the high ones) with a measure of strength and power that eluded him in the '80s, allowing his voice to slightly crack only when emotionally appropriate.

Years Of Refusal only sags a bit around the songs "One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell" and "You Were Good In Your Time" when the lyrics and tone plunge too acutely into an elegiac, funereal realm. Overall, this is an excellent record replete with the biting, high-quality mopery the music world has come to expect from The Mozzer, songs full of earnest melodrama, but with a limited amount of unnecessary wallowing. Count me as a fan and critic truly pleased with Years Of Refusal.

I can't tell at all; I almost don't believe him. The man sitting across from me at this Ballard pub seems as happy as a dog sticking his head out the window of a beat down Ford. He sips his whisky and ginger ale slowly as I write down responses with my right hand, drink Sprite with my left hand, and smile with intrigue at this dude, who, although he is barely my senior, seems wise beyond his years.

And maybe this has something to do with the fact that he has been writing and performing his own material since he was sixteen years old, putting out his first album when he was eighteen. And maybe it has something to do with how absolutely sure of himself he seems. There is almost no timidity in any of his responses, except when I bring up the "one year" ("Just give me one year/And I'll be yours my dear" and "If you have one more year/I will be yours my dear") that comes up multiple times in his newest eclectic collection of pop songs, Signal Flare.

"Well, that year has come and gone..." This when the sheepish grin comes on his face and he looks down at the table and takes another short sip from his short glass. "And, well, that turned out pretty horribly, actually. I think that is about as far I want to go into it."

I had never seen Anderson and Cataldo in concert, so I don't know exactly what he will look like, but I know that I am looking for someone tall, and, if he was being completely honest and accurate in his songwriting, someone about six-foot-six ("6'6"").

"I'm only six-foot-four, actually. But that doesn't sound quite as good in a song, does it?"

"No, I guess not," I say.

I want to say that a stiff breeze might knock him over, but that might be an overstatement. Maybe a wild shopping cart on a windy day would take him down. His long legs and disproportionately long feet tucked into his fading New Balance sneakers makes me think of Andy Dufrane from The Shawshank Redemption.

"I used to be a lot shorter, but I was the exact same weight so I just stretched out. I didn't play any sports when I was growing up, but now I have become a fanatic - not watching, but playing. I love playing basketball and tennis."

I almost don't believe him on this one either.

But I do know for sure that Anderson can write one hell of a pop rock love song. Signal Flare shows improvement in his ability to write ditties with tight and precise arrangements of guitar, banjo, piano, strings, horns and everything else that gives his simple songs the flare they need to survive in the bars and rooms he has been playing for the last few months across America, particularly Washington and the Midwest.

"I feel the tension of having to entertain and having to make something new or fresh when I am having to perform live. Some songs you just can't do in a bar without the drums and the vocals and everything. Really, I just have to entertain myself. If I like something, if something sounds cool, I keep it.

"I like the songs that I write. Sometimes I introduce stuff too soon. I write a lot of material for a song, but the song the way you hear it on the records, I have taken a lot of things away."

This sounds much different that what I hear other artists say about their material. It seems that to be an artist you must be a bit timid and slightly embarrassed (David Bazan and Ray LaMontagne come readily to mind) you must act as though you secretly hate all the songs you write and wish that you could write a song like ABC Songwriter and XYZ Recording Artist. But Anderson seems positively proud of himself and the songs that he writes. He tells me that he is a hopeful person, but are there insecurities?

"Hell yeah! I made my first record when I was eighteen. I go to school. I want to play music and pay my rent and I can't help but ask sometimes, what the f*** am I doing? That's being human. That's being normal. I know what I want to do and I can afford to be young, dumb and starving."

I can tell that Anderson could be doing a lot of other things besides playing music. He tells me about his love for words and his tendency to write and re-write simple emails and notes, the way he speaks to me about the things that he loves with deliberate thought and careful articulation. I can't help but think that this would be a boss's greatest dream in a sales firm or a corporate office.

This caution shows up in his songwriting. He is very careful in how he displays his emotions about love and love-loss. He denies that he only writes love songs, but he sure as hell writes a lot, and those are the songs that stick.

"Those songs are sentimental, sure, but they are not cheesy. That's important. Really, I'm not expressive person in most situations."

If he were able to express himself and his romantic emotions in real-time, in real life, he could nab just about any girl he wanted. All my friends who happen to be girls are absolutely in love with him and they don't even know what he looks like or if he is a good listener and gives good foot-rubs. He could be a six-foot-four lobster; it wouldn't matter as long as he could talk about dancing cheek-to-cheek to country tunes and tracing the line of her back and telling her that she has eyes like two polished glass test-tubes.

He's good at his art because he chooses his words wisely, although, he says, the new EP he is recording (he thanks his current unemployment for the opportunity to do so) will be much more emo - not in the Taking Back Sunday type way he assures me - in that he will let the turmoil of now guide his words, as well as the words of those who came before.

"I have an interest in words. There is no one that I model myself after, but I steal a lot of words. You can't have too many words in your pocket, ready to go. I have been reading a lot of Renaissance poetry. They didn't put those out like they do today; no one published those poems. They were written for particular people to particular people. They were about the same things that I am writing about today - love and such. It makes me know that I don't have to reinvent the wheel."

Before he has to go catch a bus to his friend's art show at a Gibson guitar showcase room (he tells that any artist who is willing to play in front of people gets to play any guitar he chooses. That's a singer's wet dream, I say. And he wholeheartedly agrees) we discuss literature and the power of the Steinbeck, Hemingway, McCarthy, particularly American, short, declarative sentence.

"My professors used to say that my prose had no jazz. I don't want them to have jazz. I want to be able to say exactly what I mean. There is nothing more powerful than the short, declarative sentence."

Then we left. The end.

But it's true, each morning as I drove through town on my way to work my head turned in the direction of every white haired, well dressed older man who happened to be walking about. I couldn't help myself. John Updike lived less than a mile from our apartment and I wanted to meet him.

I first read John Updike when I was a freshman in high school. The often anthologized "A&P" was the story. I like to tell people that it is the story that made me want to write stories. It appealed to me then because it was immediately relatable. I was working at a grocery store called Johnny's Foodmaster, my first job. And although I wasn't a cashier as the main character in the story is, I did often use my bagging station as a perch from which to steal glimpses of the few young girls that would come in to pick up milk or eggs for their mothers. And I certainly shared the main characters' tendency toward delusions of grandeur.

My appreciation for that story matured as I did, and it served as a gateway into the rest of Updike's writing. I can very nearly trace decisions in my life that led toward my development as a writer to many of Updike's stories and essays that I encountered over the years. I decided that short fiction was my genre of choice, for example, when I read "Leaves" from 1967's The Music School. Later, after reading Hugging the Shore, first published in 1983, I turned my attention to non-fiction. Since those early days a plethora of other influences have arisen as I worked to find my own voice, but that initial connection to Updike's writing remains.

It wasn't until I was a sophomore at Gordon College that I learned of our geographic connection. There it was widely known that the same John Updike that we read in our literature anthologies was a neighbor of the college. It was also known that despite his close proximity, Mr. Updike would not be visiting Gordon anytime soon. The explanation however was less clear. There were rumors of a disagreement between a member of the faculty, or administration, and Updike. Whatever the reason, though we still read his stories in literature and creative writing courses, he would never be speaking in a classroom or at convocation. I don't have any confirmation that this rumor is true aside from the fact that in my time at Gordon as a student, and later as an adjunct professor, John Updike never visited campus.

Of course there are many other Updike stories floating around the North Shore of Boston. Another such account has a Gordon professor rear-ending John Updike's car somewhere in Beverly. In the rendition I heard, an interesting conversation sprung up between them and they discussed writing over the exchanging of insurance information.

I have a friend of a friend who did landscaping at the Updike home and actually saw his Pulitzer Prize and another friend who used to deliver pizzas to the Updikes. The owner of a local used book store, Manchester by the Book, explained to me one day as I was browsing that every so often he has to drive over to Updike's house to pick up the books that he chooses not to read of those that are sent to his house with the hope that he will review them. Even while workshopping this essay, a good friend and fellow writer prefaced his critique with a story about meeting Updike in The Book Shop, a small bookstore here in Beverly Farms. That's the same shop from which my mother-in-law bought me a signed copy of Updike's newest novel Terrorist; he apparently signs all of the hard cover editions of his books that they sell there.

And yet I never saw him around town, let alone met him. From my office in our old apartment I could look out the window across to the library where his name is inscribed above the windows among other literary Farms' residents. I would often peer out that same window down onto the street to see if he happened to be window shopping below, but to no avail.

So why did I want so badly to meet John Updike? What would I have said to him?
It's not as if I'm an adoring fan who wanted an autograph; anyway, as I mentioned, I already have one. I didn't necessarily have a manuscript that I wanted him to read. (Though I'm sure I could have throw one together pretty quickly, if asked.) I didn't want to approach John Updike as a fan, or an admirer, and I was certainly not a colleague. I wanted to meet him as a skeptic; a young person who doesn't quite believe that the writing life can actually be a life. I wanted to meet him as someone who knows plenty of books but very few authors. I wanted to know how the words that I have spent my young life storing inside me could have originated inside someone else, another human being.

When I sit down to write I have the sense that although I am alone physically, I am also in great company in that I am surrounded by a chorus of writers' words rising up from everywhere, including from inside. I try to keep this connection before me at all times so that I don't feel like I'm on my own island, writing my own thoughts, to be shared with no one beside me. But I need a physical reminder of this community as well. Therefore, scattered over my desk are my favorite books from the writers I rely on the most, always within arms' reach should I need encouragement or inspiration or simply diversion.

But at some point a writer realizes that more community than this is necessary, that while the words still live inside the computer, on the white plain that is made to look like real, physical paper, they don't actually exist yet. And it's hard to make the connection between the words in the books around me, the physical books, and their origins, potentially on similar digital "paper." Harder to imagine still is the connection between these words, existing in invisible space, the words between book covers, and the man or woman who has watched the process progress from bodiless words to physical pages. And I find it nearly impossible to connect the names on the spines of the books on the shelf next to me with the person pictured on the dust cover and just as hard to connect that two-dimensional person in black and white with the real, three-dimensional full color, living, breathing human being.

But I want to meet that human being. I want to know someone who knows that these words can actually become physical things. And I have come to believe that John Updike could have helped me make this connection. I believed this because I know that he too struggled with this disconnect. In a short piece called "Updike and I" found in the last section of More Matters he concocts a monologue by "I" about the other, "Updike." It is written in the model of Jorge Luis Borges' essay "Borges and I" published in 1964. Updike's piece is enlightening not only because it actually describes how "Updike and I," both, react to meeting an admirer, but it illuminates the space between writer and real person. Even John Updike felt some disconnect between the writer of the same name. Even he couldn't quite see how the person who spends time in front of the word processor can possibly be the same person who reads the newspaper with breakfast in the morning. It is as if the words that one takes in and the words that one sends out pass each other somewhere inside of a person but the two identities rarely meet.

Still, this small comfort, this modest assurance that even established authors question their relationship to their own writing and that of others comes from the same place it always has, words on a page. I know from reading Updike that he, the man, could never have offered me that same comfort in person. He probably would have felt as awkward as I, eyes dashing to corners of the room falling on anything inanimate, anything safe. Because the inanimate objects, the heavy books, and the light ones too, are the things we trust the most, even when the living beings are what we want the books to help us understand.

I never did meet Updike. Not on the street, nor in the library, the bookstore nor the beach. I can't say what it is like to shake hands with the man who brought to life countless characters in all those short stories and novels or who penned so many brilliant essays and reviews. But I'll always have those characters and essays to remember and to help move forward. At some point over the last several years Updike's position, entrenched with modernity, has become less attractive to me. Yet, somehow, his persona has not. Knowing that he existed, and for a time, in such proximity to where I lived is still comforting and empowers me to offer back the little I can. In this case it is these words, in black and white, inanimate as they may be, as a means of commiseration, of understanding.

Last year, it wasn't until the 28th of January that something significant hit stores with the Vampire Weekend album and, on a lesser note, the awesome Protest the Hero disc (apologies to the three of you that were super-psyched for the Natasha Bedingfield disc). On the mainstream end of the spectrum, 2009 isn't much different. Taylor Swift has been the most direct beneficiary of the great gift card cash-in, but the industry is still hibernating, with some of the lowest total sales weeks in decades ringing in the year the wrong way economically. The indie world, on the other hand, has Animal Collective to get all frenzied over, although I'm not sure if people prefer the idea of that band to its recorded reality. Personally, I wasn't a huge fan of the act before and their new album (and accompanying Pitchfork fueled hype) didn't sway me, so the first truly exciting release of 2009 would still be to come.

A new album by New Mexico youngster Zach Condon and his act Beirut seemed promising enough. However, as news trickled out about the project, scheduled to be released on February 16th, there was something troubling about it all. First, the release wouldn't be an album per se, but a collection of two EPs. The first EP was the result of a soundtrack commission that fell apart, but still sent Condon to Mexico to record with the 19-piece Jimenez Band from the village of Teotitlan del Valle. The second EP would, however, consist of electropop tracks Condon recorded in his bedroom. For a guy whose notability is largely based on his recordings/tributes to Gypsy music, the idea of a synth-driven collection of songs, even if it wasn't a full album, was somewhat disconcerting. Sure, no one wants to hear the same album recorded over and over again with slight variations and different titles, but this news seemed like a creative left turn competitive with Kanye West's autotune album of sad bastard balladry. Sure, artists can do whatever they like creatively, but should they?

The good news is that if you liked the other Beirut albums, the March of the Zapotec EP (the Mexican one) is "more of the same" in largely a good way. The energy of a different set of musicians and a different setting were good things for Condon, who probably couldn't release another album in his gypsy arc without seeming out of ideas, but still carries a familiar set of touchpoints into his new surrounding. Like on Gulag Orkestar and The Flying Cup Club, the songs are beautiful and evocative with rich instrumentation, full of drama and energy. Condon's singing is so effected that it's difficult for me to understand what the heck he's saying, but in the same manner you could listen to a French singer like Edith Piaf and feel her words through her rich performance, a song like "La Llorona" works as an over-the-top whole. There are seemingly a thousand things going on each track (the perils of using a nearly twenty piece band), but Condon's respect for old world traditions of song is welcome and wonderful.

The other part of the news is that the Holland EP is good as well, albeit not great. This seems to be the sort of project the ability to purchase on iTunes by the song was made for. You can tell quickly, even via a thirty second sample, if this half of Condon's project is for you. The final track "No Dice" is a straight lo-fi indie instrument made for some sort of dancing, I suppose, but otherwise, the other tracks are like Beirut if you replaced all the horns and accordions with one synthesizer. Oddly, Christian fringe act Joy Electric might be the closest reference point. The electronic songs aren't quite as deliberately hooky as say the Postal Service, but Condon has quite a bit of skill in the genre, but these five songs aren't going to be for everyone. Unlike Animal Collective, for example, Condon's experimental side still keeps the song at the center, although the novelty might not hold up for long. Still, as an artist, Zach Condon/Beirut/Realpeople/whatever is still heavy on the charm, which certainly helps make for a 2009 release to be happy to see on the shelves.

If you're anything like me, you have to forgive the initial impulse to belt out Journey when seeing the cover. But if you can get past that, I think you'll find one of the most graceful and informed critics of the Emergent church yet on the market. Wittmer is a seminary professor in Grand Rapids, which means he is in an uberconservative Christian culture with an enigmatic emergent crowd among Rob Bell disciples. That's not to be critical of Rob Bell disciples; I have a bit of a man-crush on the prophet of G-Rap myself. I'm just saying when Wittmer writes about emerging(ent) church, it's because he's swimming up to his eyeballs in the tension of it all.

Wittmer's book is structured around a series of issues on which Wittmer thinks we need to land a middle road between theological Conservatives and Postmodern Innovators (or PI; his catch-all term for emergent, emerging, neo-progressive, etc.). I felt that latter term failed in some spots since PIs often articulate a position far older than Conservatives (who tend to date the early church back to 1517AD). I'll be the first to confess that there were times where I wanted to reach through the book and punch Wittmer in the face for blatant inaccuracies (or so I thought at first), but he had a knack for bringing me back with a wealth of extra information by the end of the chapter to where I could see his perspective and generally agree. He covered most of the major hot topics: necessity of cognitive belief for salvation, original sin, homosexuality, atonement, existence of hell, epistemology, inerrancy/infallibility of Scripture, and more. I don't think there was a single chapter where I completely lined up with his conclusions, but he was informing, challenging, and persuasive nonetheless.

I particularly liked his chapter on atonement. He is the first conservative voice I've heard in the contemporary conversation who admits that Penal Substitution Atonement (the idea that Christ died as the result of God literally taking the punishment for sin in order to preserve both God's justice and His love) is a construct of the late medieval and early Reformation periods rather than a doctrine dating back to the early church. Nonetheless, he sees PSA as the primary model for the Gospel, describing a Christus Victor/PSA synthesis as his middle way between Conservatives and PIs. It was helpful. I still say it's incomplete, because I think the Gospel has got to be bigger than something described by any and all atonement models, much less just two, but then again, I have no solid position on the exact workings atonement anyways.

Like I said, there were moments when I wanted to toss my beliefs about nonviolence (I wish he had addressed that), particularly when Willmer states it's obvious "that the Bible says that homosexual acts are sin." I don't have my mind made up on this subject, but I tend to agree with him. But if you've researched this issue at all, you know it's nowhere near perfectly clear what the Biblical position on homosexuality should be, because there are legitimate arguments on each side. Wittmer does quickly concede this fact while still remaining hardline on his orthodoxy. So I ended up siding fairly close to him on the issue of homosexuality.

I can't say the same for Hell. Researching the history of ideas about Hell and its (non?)appearance in Scripture has been a bit of a pet project of mine over the past couple years. The chapter on Hell largely centers around Brian McLaren's work in The Last Word and the Word After That (which I highly recommend). My advice for anti-emergents is this: if you want to bash emergent church, don't write against whole doctrines by knocking on McLaren. McLaren is a pastor, not a theologian. He is a base emergents start from, not the sum total of theological construct. And please, quit using the "Jesus talked about Hell, so we should believe in it" line. If that was a legitimate argument, then it would have settled the issue of Hell and saved us 2000 years of debate. As with most vicissitudes into the debate of Hell, there were too many stones left unturned. I was left with this oft-occurring feeling that I, with no firm belief in a literal Hell, could craft a better argument for the existence of Hell than most anti-emergents do.

Looking back through this review, it seems harsh. In case you glazed over the former half, I truly did find this book both informative and a challenge. If you are emergent, read it. It's a quick read from a sharp prof who actually understands the point of view emergents take - rare in Christian media. Regardless of how sure I am in my opinions, I haven't devoted my meager 22 years to studying theology, so what do I know? So far as I can tell, Michael Wittmer is a thinker, and while he defaults to feeling safe on the side of theological conservatism (as I subconsciously do), he synthesizes a massive amount of authors and materials I've never seen before to bear his arguments. So as a theological whore, I'll always appreciate hearing a different perspective, whether conservative or postmodern and innovative.