The time doesn’t belong to me when we’re all hanging out. It’s family time. So if I want to use some of that valuable family time to write a tweet, it only makes sense that I would buy that time back from my kids. So every time I tweet on the weekends or on weeknights, I have to give each kid a quarter.

By day 3 of this silly experiment, my kids were coming up to me and saying things like:

“You should write a tweet about dinner.”

“Have you tweeted enough today?”

“How many times have you tweeted?”

We laugh about it as a family, but it’s changed my relationship with Twitter. I always knew there was a time cost. You can’t stop a private moment with your family to document it for strangers and not incur some cost in time. But now, with the simple act of putting a financial cost on it as well, it makes me focus on what I’m really doing.

But Owen Strachan has a problem with that plan:

It may not be the worst thing in the world, then, to “pay for Tweets.”  Like I said, at least Acuff is fighting his addiction, unlike many parents I see.  Let’s just be honest–the smartphone has become an escape tool.  When you’re with your kids but your heart’s not in it, you jump on Twitter and scroll through comments.  Meanwhile, your kids get annoyed, they act up, and no one ends up happy.

So some action is better than no action.  But doesn’t “paying for Tweets” put your kids in the awkward position of adjudicating your fatherly behavior?  That’s a silly idea, and a bad one.  Your kids shouldn’t be your authority (even in a whimsical sense), you should be theirs.  It may be fun for a bit to have them “police” you, but that’s ultimately an irresponsible position to put them in.

I love this back and forth because I think it unveils on a micro level two very distinct approaches to seemingly harmful aspects of culture. While Strachan is correct in saying that the smartphone has become an “escape tool” I disagree with his insinuation that it has to be. Owen is all about self-discipline and abstaining, if even for a time, for the good of the family. He writes of Jon’s plan: “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned self-control?  Are we really so addicted to social media that we literally can’t put the iPhone down?”

It’s a misleading question, because it implies that the ultimate goal is to rid our family time completely of our iPhones and anything else that has potential to distract us. Not only is that hard, but it’s also counterproductive and misguided. Acuff rightly recognizes that the ideal situation isn’t a family time without technology – it’s a situation wherein the family is invested in one another, where technology isn’t treated habitually but thoughtfully. Strachan claims the kids’ are put in the position of policing, but the more accurate way of describing the situation is with words like “conversing” and “questioning”. And when Acuff picks up his iPhone to tweet, you better believe his family is just as much a part of his life as they were before he picked up the phone.

There’s nothing wrong with abandoning the iPhone for a period – but there’s equally nothing wrong with attempting to adapt our iPhone usage to better include those around us, as long as they’re game. The paying cuts down on the tweeting for sure, but it also ensures that when the tweeting does happen, it’s well worth it.

Lately, however, I’m starting to wonder if there are games and forms of competition that not only aren’t good, but are fundamentally antithetical to a Christian vision and existence. Like some cultural activities, there are games that perhaps the Christian should refrain from playing. With such games, abstinence might be the greater exercise in Christian obedience and formation. Catan, I think, is such a game. Playing Pictionary and basketball can be profitable; the same cannot be said of Catan.

Catan brings out the worst in people. And not just people in general, but good people — fluffy, kind, gentle people. It’s an insidious masquerade of a game that causes the most placid and civilized to degenerate into the most tempestuous and belligerent. It is a spacious vessel that transports masses into the dark abyss of nothingness. It causes you to have the fierce urge to backhand someone you would never raise your voice to — like your mother. I kid you not, I have spoken to couples who have split up because of Catan. Indeed, “irreconcilable differences” has taken on a whole new meaning. I no longer play with my wife.

I’m not calling into question the factual (perhaps a bit overstated for effect?) claims Bennet makes about how Catan often results in arguments and strife. I myself have seen the game give rise to arguments among friends and family. There’s no question that the competitive nature of Catan can get to some people. The question at hand, though, is whether Catan is responsible.

The answer to this is kind of obvious, right?

Most of us know the feeling of getting just a little too angry during any game. Those who play sports are particularly familiar with this. The nature of any game is that we allow the stakes to be artificially higher for a period of time, during which we all pretend to our utmost that the outcome of the game itself somehow matters. But deep down, we all know the truth: it really doesn’t. Unless we’re playing college or professional sports and have a career on the line, there is little reason to experience any true emotional trauma because of the game. But then, sometimes, we do.

Some games really do reward that unchecked aggression. Football players are often encouraged to “save it for the field” and instead, channel all of their personal grudges towards some guy wearing the opposing team’s jersey. But that is not Catan. Bennet has it all wrong. While he claims that Catan is “designed with the most conniving and destructive intentions and methods ever conceived,” and that it “forces you to seek the misfortune of your opponents,” he’s talking about the fact that in order for you to win at Catan, the other players must obtain less resources and have less opportunity to score points. He’s right about that — but this is the case with almost any game. Astoundingly, he claims that “[p]laying Pictionary and basketball can be profitable; the same cannot be said of Catan.” I don’t understand the difference, and he never shares any secret knowledge in the article that clarifies what makes Catan so unprofitable.

The truth is that, yes, some games are more profitable than others. Some push our ethical limits. Balderdash asks us to “bluff”. Games like Shadows Over Camelot and Battlestar Galactica often force one player to be the “traitor”, sowing mistrust in the group. Many videogames ask us to “kill” other players for points. None of these games are inherently “antithetical to a Christian vision and existence” because as long as they remain games, they take place in a separate context than the rest of life. Like a digital avatar on a videogame screen, the actions we take in a board game are mere representations of real-life actions: they are not the actions themselves. If we are able to keep that perspective, not only are we able to play them with a clear conscience, but we will be able to learn from them.

This is far more than a mere compartmentalization of life or an easy excuse. It’s an acknowledgement that games are practice for reality, rather than reality itself. Games provide us with an opportunity to experiment with the cause and effect of our various choices. In the context of games, because the stakes are actually false, so are the virtues. Because the virtues are false, so are the vices. Otherwise, we would find ourselves unable to play chess (a game with the ultimate goal of assassination) in any way that is remotely justified.

Games are only as profitable as we allow them to be, and in order for them to serve their purpose, we must first approach them rightly. Perhaps the #1 rule of approaching a game rightly is as follows: take it seriously, but keep your perspective. The stakes may seem high at times, but they are not high in the context of our real lives. It seems almost certain from this article that Bennet struggles with this rule:

A lot of playing happens, but I can’t say the same about fellowship. About fifteen minutes into the game, the fellowship often ends. Abruptly. Discussing struggles and praising physical, mental, or spiritual triumphs of the previous week is usurped by droves of expletives. And I mean droves. I’ll be honest, after Monday nights, I have to repent.

To be honest, the whole article is kind of heartbreaking for me. You won’t see me arguing that Bennet should suck it up and keep playing: it’s clear that playing Catan is resulting in a string of bad experiences for him, and that’s just unpleasant and not worth the trouble. But perhaps he should consider addressing the root of the issue: that he takes a game, on a board, with little wood houses and roads and in supposedly friendly competition with friends, as seriously as he might take an election or a church meeting or a war. They are not the same. Take a breath, consider the outcome, and just have some fun.

Bennet says he loses a lot. So do I. I love games, but I am awful at pretty much all of them. But I appreciate them nonetheless, because of the way they break the ice with friends and strangers, because of the way they illuminate our personalities, and because they provide a low-stakes playground in which we can experiment with and evaluate our values system without fear of actual transgression or relational hurt.

Settlers of Catan is about more than the ruthless destruction and usurping of our friends’ stuff. It’s about demonstrating patience long enough for that eventual windfall. It’s about exercising stewardship over limited resources. It’s about sucking it up and adapting when your plans don’t pan out as you’d hoped. It’s about learning to be kind when you are able so that your rival won’t be preoccupied with sticking you with the robber. It’s about managing pride, because no one likes a threat. Like any game, Catan is about winning. But it’s also about patience, discipline, humility, and kindness.

My friends and I have gotten frustrated, even angry at one another during a game of Catan. I’ve seen yelling matches, game-long pouting sessions, and even game pieces fly across the room. But in each of these games, we learn something about one another. We take those lessons and move on. We don’t dream of carrying the burden of the game into the rest of the week. We know, ultimately, that our rivals in Catan are not our real rivals. We take our frustrations and leave them on the wheat field.

Illustration courtesy of Seth T. Hahne.

The Christian community tends to respond by either ignoring popular culture or critiquing it moralistically through discussion about popular culture, rather than reflecting on our inescapable existence within it. Even those Christian perspectives that emphasize cultural transformation have a dearth of positive engagement with contemporary manifestations of culture.

This tendency towards “evasion” forms a posture towards popular culture—we pray for it, we decry its excesses—that is at odds with the reality of our being immersed within popular culture: From food to fashion, guitars to guns, and pipe organs to orbiting telecommunication satellites. Every square inch of our lives is saturated by patterns and expressions of popular culture.

To make culture is an inextricable part of our human identity that has too often been ignored within the Christian tradition.

This conference, which will take place at Dordt College on November 1–3, 2012, will explore the Christian tendency to “evade” popular culture. Speakers and presenters will seek answers to questions like: Is it possible to be in the world but not of the world? How can the Christian community sustain the impulse of reformation with regard to the social and cultural aspects of human life? What are the implications of the Christian faith and the hope for “new creation” with regard to the human proclivity to make culture?

Honestly, the rationale for this conference is so dead-on, it makes me want to buy some plane tickets right now. Whether I’ll be able to make it is as of yet undetermined, but you should certainly try to make it yourself. They are also putting out a call for papers for all sorts of different subjects.

Coke on her black skin made a stripe like a zebra
I call that jungle fever
You will not control the threesome
Just roll the weed up until I get me some
We formed a new religion
No sins as long as there’s permission’

It’s clear that John finds it difficult to listen to lyrics like these and maintain his position that listening to rap music like this can be beneficial. After all, he says “…now I have to figure out how to prove to myself that a rap lyric about cocaine on somebody’s body is a beneficial thing to put in my head. That’s a tough road, my friend.” Acuff’s entire article is very much worth reading.

Tough road indeed, and yet here I am listening to Kanye as I type this – and I think the question is one of investment. Can you bring yourself to listen to and truly grapple with these lyrics, or are you willing to let them wash over you, invade you, and change you without a second thought? For me, lyrics like these are beneficial because I am forcing myself to engage them, just as I would an agnostic friend or atheist professor. Being in the presence of or listening to sinful ideas doesn’t necessarily infect the mind – it just challenges it.

John has a point about the sexual concepts though – some of us find those sorts of sins uniquely invasive, and that’s okay. The key is to know yourself – for me, in this season of my life, hearing those lyrics do nothing for me. That lifestyle sounds nothing but empty to me, and while viewing it taking place may cause serious problems (here I am, knowing myself), listening to a rapper rap about it – it just sounds kinda sad.

10. Hugo 3D
While it might help to be a cinephile of Scorsese’s caliber to appreciate Hugo, loving his first “family” film has less to do with having an appreciation of film history, and more to do with having a childlike sense of wonder and imagination. Set in 1930’s Paris, Scorsese’s Dickensian 3D adventure is about an orphan boy named Hugo Cabret who is trying to find his place and purpose in the world after losing both his mother and father in separate incidents. Hugo’s father was a master clockmaker who passed along a love for automation and mystery to his son. After his alcoholic watchmaker Uncle disappears, Hugo is left to himself to survive between the walls of a railway station. Hugo is working on his father’s uncompleted last project, hoping to find a key that might unlock a message from his father—perhaps a message that will make sense of the narrative of his life.

I confess that it is difficult for a film to “capture my imagination” or draw me in completely, but Scorsese’s adventure drama achieved this from the very beginning with its opening shot of drifting snow—and perhaps first awakened my sense of belief by making me believe 3D can be more than a add-on gimmick or marketing tool. Ultimately, though, Hugo captivated me because it captured so well why I love going to the movies. The film powerfully depicts how stories, and the hope of redemption they offer, help us reconcile our emotional scars. Along with Hugo, we recognize how the contours of personal identity are constituted by narrative arc, a sense of purpose, and the pursuit of mystery. In Hugo’s quest, we see that the essential self calls us to a childlike faith. -Nick Olson

9. Cave of Forgotten Dreams
In Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Werner Herzog delivers what might be his most compelling documentary to date. He invites us to follow him as our tour guide through the Chauvet Cave in southern France, which contains what is believed to be 30,000 year old paintings—essentially the world’s oldest known art display. In observing handprints and countless drawings that display a level of artistic creativity and expression, we learn something that is quite an affirmation, if not a revelation: our Paleolithic ancestors weren’t doltishly inept—they were creators like us, developing a sense of artistic cultivation in the land before time.

While the tour itself is the most interesting part of the documentary, some of the interviews are a close second. In one interview, a professional researcher of the cave asserts that perhaps we should not be called “homo sapiens”—“the man who knows”—but, instead, “homo spiritualis.” Over the course of history, we human beings don’t know much in the grand scheme of things, but we all, as sentient beings, have a perceiving self-awareness that has been most commonly impressed with a sense of awe, or worship. And by expressing this sense of awe through creative artifacts, the sense of communion we feel reveals something to us about the divine tie that binds us as human creatures. -Nick Olson

8. Moneyball
How does a quirky film about sports statistics make it to a top ten list?  The plot of Moneyball is a bit slow and a bit technical, two things that don’t typically make a movie a blockbuster, or even very watchable, for that matter.  But in this film, the parts that makethe whole consistently “get on base” – which of course, is how you win games.  Moneyball is part underdog story, part character study, and part heart-warmer, and each part is executed wonderfully.

The bulk of the acting is shouldered (quite well) by Brad Pitt as down-and-out Oakland As general manager Billy Beane, a man who has just lost his best players to teams with more money, and his marriage to baseball in general.  You just can’t help but step into his shoes and pull for the guy.  Throughout the entire cast the acting is subtle and sincere, and the characters are complex and interesting, so much so that you almost forget for a sec that you’re watching a “sports movie”.

Granted, Moneyball ends on a somewhat unresolved note – the team doesn’t end up winning big on the field, and Beane doesn’t end up winning big in his personal life.  But I can relate to the Oakland As and Pitt’s Beane in a way I can’t relate to overly-dramatic characters in psuedo-historic epics.  All in all, at the end, Beane and his team make an irreparable dent in “the system” – which, for most of us in this age, would be victory enough and more. -Kirk Bozeman

7. The Muppets
The Muppets is among my top three 2011 films, which, for me, means that it was one of the three total movies I would consider above mediocre. It’s been the sort of cinematic year in which, more than ever, I fear that I am slouching toward cranky senescence. Statler and Waldorf—or perhaps Sam the Eagle, minus his nationalism—have become my spiritual kin. This recognition leads me to the hard-hitting existential question at The Muppets’ emotional core: “Am I a man or am I a Muppet?” For those of us who have always suspected that we are, in fact, made of felt—writer/star Jason Segel undoubtedly numbers among this company, and I have my suspicions about songwriter Bret McKenzie—The Muppets comes as a welcome reassurance that we are not alone.

The movie-as-community aspect may veer uncomfortably into fan-fiction territory, as Drew McWeeny points out. But that community also has serious regulations, as McKenzie reveals in his description of his immersion in the do’s and don’ts of Muppethood: “Most of the animals can talk, but chickens can’t talk. Chickens can only cluck. Sometimes I’d write lyrics and the chickens would sing; then I’d find out in the studio that they could only cluck. And for penguins, it’s a subject of much controversy as to whether the penguins can talk or not. . . . And sometimes I’d be in the studio and one of the Muppets would refuse to sing a line because they didn’t think it was appropriate for the character.” In other words, it’s pretty much like Anglican/Episcopalian church: highly arbitrary and arcane rules, leading to an immensely joyful experience. And this is why I love The Muppets. -Carissa Smith

6. Super 8
When Super 8 was announced, it was done so under a veil of secrecy. The first teaser was startling and explosive, but still fairly enigmatic. But such is the case with J.J. Abrams, who certainly loves to misdirect audiences and keep them in the dark until its time for the reveal. That approach may have backfired a bit with Super 8, because when you get right down to it, it is, in many ways, a fairly straightforward summer popcorn flick.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, because it’s a rather good one. Packed with lots of humor and heart, thanks to its wonderful primary cast of youngsters, as well as aliens, explosions, and military conspiracies Super 8 certainly evokes such classic sci-fi films as Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. It stumbles a bit in the end with an emotional coda that rings hollow, and the big alien reveal underwhelms, but when Abrams is piling on the tension and action, and his young characters are rushing around trying to save their town and complete a zombie movie, it sure is a lot of good, heartfelt fun. -Jason Morehead

5. Like Crazy
In the last few years, there have been a host of films that call into question the traditional romantic comedy formula. Often, though, those films can seem like just another formula offerred up to replace the old one: Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy and girl encounter obstacles, boy and girl realize they are not meant to be together. Rather than asking us to reconsider the nature of romantic relationships, they simply shift the focus to the other side of the story: the relationships that don’t work, and were never meant to be.

Like Crazy, on the other hand, suggests that sometimes relationships that seem perfect, even on a cosmic, fated level, may not work out in the end. It has the bravery to diverge from the formula by making a movie that is narratively messy, because that is how the end of this sort of relationship works: neither of them wants it to end, and so they fight tooth and nail to save the relationship. The only problem is that they’re never fighting at the same time, in the same way. They are ships passing in the night, after crashing against one another several times over. Another risk the film takes is to present us with protagonists we grow to love, primarily so that we can grow increasingly frustrated with their mistakes. Their failure to take the sacrifices necessary to live up to their combined potential is so clearly unveiled that we find ourselves feeling frustrated with them as we do a friend who keeps making bad choices. The final outcome can be seen many different ways, depending on who you ask, but the nature of their struggle and the motives behind it are so clear, asking those questions after this film could result in some incredibly insightful and uncomfortable discussion. -Richard Clark

4. Certified Copy
Abbas Kiarostami’s Certified Copy was my second favorite film released in the US in 2011, but I suspect that this thoughtful, yet playful film will be the one that I return to most in the years to come. Some might be turned off by this European art house film; it follows a day-long walk and conversation through a local Italian village between a British author, James Miller (William Shimell), and an admiring French woman named Elle (Juliette Binoche). James is in town to discuss a book he’s written on the value of a copy versus the original work of art. At his presentation, Elle gives him her address and they spend the following day together discussing the nature of art, marriage, and life as they wander through the beautiful village.

The film becomes an alluring mystery when the nature of the couple’s relationship becomes a question. At a definite point in the film, the couple begins pretending (or are they?) that they have been in an intimate, perhaps declining, relationship for many years. Are they really married, or just pretending to be? The whole film plays on the themes of truth and authenticity as they relate to art, marriage, and faith. It’s the type of film that reveals something new with each viewing, and yet, while it may sound like nothing more than a mind game, Certified Copy has an endearingly light touch (perhaps because Binoche’s character shines through). While the film’s central mystery may remain open ended, this does not at all hinder an essential theme: there are ethics involved in authenticity. They’re what we might call the demands of love. -Nick Olson

3. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2
I’ve followed Harry Potter (books and films) since his inception, and the series remains one of the few that I regularly take the time to reread and re-watch, becoming more entangled in the magic with each return visit. So I went to the theatre to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows II expecting to enjoy the show; what I didn’t anticipate was a game-changer, but that’s what the final installment turned out to be for me. As I read the books (and read and listen to them again), I understand Rowling’s intention with Severus Snape, yet somehow, the words on the pages just couldn’t make his sacrifice come alive for me the way actor Alan Rickman does. I am still haunted by his memories, just as his character was, and the painful realizations of love unrequited and love lost.

I never enjoyed (in the book or the film) the epilogue where Harry Potter and his friends stand around on the platform enjoying their immense good fortune with their prodigious and poorly-named offspring; that scene seemed too obvious, too contrived, with too much pandering to a fan base desperate for a happily-ever-after that never seemed in peril to me. But I wept with Snape, and for Snape. I felt the weight of sixteen years of sacrifice, the burden of his unbearable mission as he cradled Lily’s dead body and moaned. It wasn’t the joy of Harry’s future that this final film brought to life for me, it was the tragedy of Snape’s past. Harry gets his pseudo-resurrection, his heroic recognition, his beloved wife and children; Snape gives and gives and gives, leaving behind only a breathless emptiness in the wake of his cry.

That emptiness, for me, made the story complete—bigger than the happiness of a single boy whom we loved from scene one. Months later, I recall enjoying the film as a fitting conclusion to an epic series, but it’s not Harry’s story for me anymore. It’s Snape’s. -Erin Newcomb

2. Of Gods and Men
In the midst of a cultural moment when boisterous arguing and power-posturing are the means by which we seek cultural and human change, Xavier Beauvois’ film, Of Gods and Men, is a quiet meditation that is also one of the most moving portraits of Christlikeness that I’ve ever seen on film. Based on the true story of a group of Trappist monks who sacrificed their former lives to live modest, meditative lives in the Tibhirine monastery in Algeria, Beauvois’ film depicts the sacrifice they would have to face to remain in a war-torn region under increasing threat from Islamic terrorists. Yet, the monks’ desire to stay in Algeria amidst rising tensions is largely inspired by their peaceful inhabitance, interaction, and solidarity with Muslims (the film offers a clear contrast between “Islam” and “Islamism”). What will it say of their ministry—their identities and witness as Christians—if they abandon the region?

The film’s drama, then, centers on the monks’ decision of whether to stay in Algeria in the face of almost-certain persecution. What could possibly motivate them to sacrifice themselves—even unto death? On the eve of Christmas, it’s the Incarnation of God in Christ—and its embodied imperative to love one another—that is a source of strength to the monks. In short, Of Gods and Men is powerful in its depiction of a Gethsemane-like situation—where, in the face of violent persecution, we are called to put our swords down, and in fear and trembling, focus in prayerful worship on the love of God. In so doing, we come to experience our new birth in Christ more and more vividly. -Nick Olson

1. Tree of Life
When discussing The Tree of Life, there’s much to talk about. For example, the film’s creation sequence (which condenses billions of years of cosmic, geological, and biological evolution into a mind-blowing 20 minutes), its dreamlike rendition of childhood and small-town life circa the 1950s, and its exploration of topics ranging from the mercurial nature of memory to theodicy. But whenever I reflect on Terrence Malick’s stunning film, I invariably come back to one thing: it’s exploration of fatherhood.

The film exists solidly within the shadow of the main character’s father, a man we know only as Mr. O’Brien (wonderfully played by Brad Pitt). And I was completely unprepared for the extent to which I, myself, became overshadowed by this character, and by the way the film explores his relationship, both good and bad, with his sons. But perhaps this will tell you something: My first impulse upon leaving the theatre was to rush home and hug my children.

Heading into The Tree of Life, I was prepared for gorgeous visuals, for heady (even pretentious) dialog stuffed with grandiose philosophical and theological musings, for a meandering, non-linear storyline. I was not, however, prepared for how the film would destroy me as a father, and how it would reveal to me the ways in which I so often fail as a father. I was left wondering about how I am shaping my children, and will continue to shape them; about the values and ideals that I’m planting in their little souls even now; and about the earliest memories they will have of me. In a word, The Tree of Life left me… shaken. -Jason Morehead

Fascinating write-up of what it’s like to play, here.

Of course, we shouldn’t kid ourselves into believing the blackout signifies corporate America (even the Silicon Valley version) taking a stand against Big Brother. They are simply avoiding any danger and liability that might come back to bite them should anyone use their sites to host pirated material. Free speech is just one small plank in the platform that companies like Google, Wikipedia and Reddit are standing on.

For the Christian, then, we are presented with an interesting dilemma. We desire justice, and this bill seems to promote justice by punishing those who would steal. Yet we also desire freedom and oppose giving unreasonable levels of control to the government, and this bill seems to take freedom away. We desire a healthy business environment for Internet companies, and opposing the bill seems to help in protecting that. Yet we also desire a fair business environment for artists and writers in the entertainment industry, and opposing the bill can seem to challenge that.

Read the whole article here.

The final movement of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony is a slow rumination on mortality, with quiet sections played by strings alone.

During the New York Philharmonic’s performance Tuesday night, it was interrupted by an iPhone.

The jarring ringtone—the device’s “Marimba” sound, which simulates the mallet instrument—intruded in the middle of the movement, emanating from the first row at Avery Fisher Hall.

When the phone wasn’t immediately hushed, audience members shook their heads. It continued to chime, and music director Alan Gilbert turned his head sharply to the left, signaling his displeasure.

Minutes passed. Each time the orchestra reached a quiet section, the phone could be heard above the hushed, reverent notes.

Finally, Mr. Gilbert could take no more: He stopped the orchestra.

The rest of the story is absolutely riveting.

Later on, someone tracked down the culprit so he could tell us his side of the story:

“You can imagine how devastating it is to know you had a hand in that,” said the man, who described himself as a business executive between 60 and 70 who runs two companies. “It’s horrible, horrible.” The man said he had not slept in two days.

The man, called Patron X by the Philharmonic, said he was a lifelong classical music lover and 20-year subscriber to the orchestra who was friendly with several of its members. He said he himself was often irked by coughs, badly timed applause — and cellphone rings. “Then God, there was I. Holy smokes,” he said.

Jeff Taylor has been tweeting about the “phone stack,” which consists of having everyone stack their phones up in the middle of a dinner table, thus preventing idle meal participants from distracting themselves checking their email. I really like this idea, because I think we’ve lost the ability to think of verbal conversations as exchanges requiring effort and just view them as the most annoying way to communicate.

Sometimes talking is not fun, but we do it anyway to share some basic humanity, or something like that. The solution to an awkward or prolonged silence is not to pull out your phone.

We often call for religion to be more present in games. I have to admit, Let’s Play: Ancient Greek Punishment isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Still, Pippin Bar masterfully conveys the source material with just a few pixels.

Check it out here.

Of course, one of the main reasons we’re even worrying about the fate of Isaac on the 3DS is the religious elements, which Nintendo has been known to shy away from in the past. The Binding of Isaac was made by an atheist, yet a Biblical story as the basis for a violent and in many ways disturbing video game. There are plenty of Christians that would take issue with it, sure. They will probably take a quick glance at its intro movie and scoff at the way it portrays crazy Christians.

…

It’s not that The Binding of Isaac doesn’t sometimes make me uncomfortable – because it does. Both as a Christian and as a human being that hurts deeply for victims of child abuse, Isaac’s world and story can be unsettling. But for games to be taken seriously as an art form, we need to be made uncomfortable sometimes. For you to be taken seriously by hardcore gamers and indie developers again, Nintendo, you need to let them create the experiences they need to create.

We at CaPC agree. As Britton pointed out elsewhere in the article, we included it in our top-ten games of 2011, and Drew Dixon wrote a glowing review of it over at Paste.

Probably the most crucial point for Nintendo to consider: If they refuse to approve any titles which have the potential to offend for religious reasons, they miss out on providing a place for truly unique and profound experiences, both religious and anti-religious. Worst of all: they move the conversation elsewhere.

Read the whole thing here, I guess, if you want. 

Przybylski and his colleagues tested this theory in a couple of experiments in which they had gamers self-report their personality (using a standard “Big 5” measure) in three contexts:

1. As they think they are IRL
2. As the type of person would like to ideally be IRL
3. As the type of person they felt like while playing a certain game

They found that we apparently enjoy games most when they let us feel like an idealized version of ourselves (i.e., #2 and #3 above are similar), and that effect is greatest when there’s a big discrepancy with our ideal self and our perceived self (i.e., #1 and #2 are dissimilar). So if I fantasize about being a loquacious, extroverted type of person, I feel better about myself when I’m able to play a game that lets me do that even though in reality I get tongue-tied in public. Or if I strive to be a more conscientious master of details and micromanagement, I might prefer a real-time strategy game over a first person shooter.

I repeated many of the same points that Alan had made in the previous Twitter discussion – about manipulation of facts, about how I didn’t see a difference between calling what Alan said “propaganda” and what JihadWatch does. As I try to be when debating with strangers, I was fairly incisive but still cordial, refraining from ad hominem attacks and attempting to stay on topic – I’ve been debating for years, so I know the ins and outs of it, and can sense quite easily when a debate is derailing. And as it was, I was only half interested – I didn’t really believe I’d get anywhere, but it was fun to try, and it was a good way to occupy my brain for an hour while it digested my other work.

Eventually, though, I got bored and decided to pull the plug. I gave an admittedly snippy reply (pictured below), wished him “Good day” (which I genuinely meant – I can’t imagine someone in his position has too many good days), and went to read articles for my current program.

When I clicked back on a few minutes later (honestly, I almost always have Twitter up and running), I stared, slack-jawed and not breathing, at his response.

One word.

“Meow!”

Look, we don’t always agree with Dianna, and she doesn’t always agree with us. In fact, she’s probably one of our more contrarian commenters. But we attempt to discuss issues with real words – civil ones characterized by grace and charity. This is a guy who speaks publicly for Christians every day, on the internet and otherwise. And when that public speech is made up of words like “Meow!” in this context, and not followed by any sense of shame or remorse… it’s time to take a break.

The coolest thing? You can get the album for free.

Yes, I am coming to the understanding that nit-picking at music and especially music that encourages us to offer praise and thanksgiving to God and reflect on his greatness can actually discourage the praise we are commended to offer.  This motivates me to ask a few questions with regard to why we find it necessary to be over-critical of worship music, to the extent that it can appear to have no redeeming value.

Are you listening, Alan Noble???