The world is richer and more meaningful than the most experienced traveler can hope to understand. I'm aware of this, and what follows is not a case for Britain and things British (or Celtic, or English, or Irish) being better than other countries or cultures. Nor do I mean to suggest that I am drawn to no other place; all over the world places and peoples have addressed my soul. Greece has a special place in my heart, as do Rome, Israel, the American West. There's something important to me about Scandinavia, the Amazon, Africa; New Zealand, Tibet, Andalusia, these are places I certainly want to travel to and through. These—and others—have been old loves or new, and often both. But there is something about the British Isles (to which I attach Ireland, Iona, Skye, and more) that has a unique place in the depths of me, and always has.
It's in everything from the accents to the history, from the literature to that special green of pastoral fields. It's in the music—the deeply familiar folk-tunes like Greensleeves or the soul-wrenching mournful Irish melodies, the assertive Highlands bagpipes and the lilting Welsh voices. It's in the indomitable spirit that etched a life from the barren but beautiful gray Glens, that fought against Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Danes, Normans, and handed even conquerors defeat by shaping them according to the soul of the land—the same indomitable spirit which unflinchingly and against all odds blunted the Nazi offensive. It's even in the place-names—Caerleon, Edinburgh, Iona, Oxford, Anglesey, Caledonia, Galway, Clare, Shannon—an outpouring of that mixture of cultures that formed, in the manner of a fugue, a blending together of distinct themes into the climactic world-shaping multi-culture that shaped the world, and me.
I am, I suppose, American. But what is America but an offshoot of that noble lineage, from Celt, to Roman, to Saxon, and onward…and properly, the prefix "Anglo-" should be added to those labels. For the Anglo-Celts differed in real and deep ways from the continental Celts, as the Anglo-Saxons (Anglo in the sense of the land, not the Angles) came to differ quite distinctly from the inhabitants of Saxony. In the same way, Anglo-Normans were not French, nor "Northmen." And so I am Anglo-American, in a real sense, shaped by the Isles I've spent far too little time in…shaped, in truth, from my earliest remembrances.
There is something British that shapes distinctly; and again, and for the rest of this musing, British does not mean specifically the political/cultural unit that is "The United Kingdom of Great Britain," though more power to them. I, in an action that will disturb proper historians and Irish alike, include things Irish and pre-Great Britain under the label "British" for efficiencies sake. Look to Ireland, and you'll see much the same process that results in a distinct but kindred spirit: the Anglo-Normans who settled rather forcibly in Ireland in the 13th century became nigh as Irish as the Gaels themselves. The Elizabethan English who came later found much the same fate, and it seems to be only the absentee landlords residing in England who held out against the Irishizing forces of the Emerald Isle—much to the sorrow of said Isle. The Protestant (mostly Scottish) settlers to the North—they are Irish, no matter their political loyalties or last names. And so it seems to me there is a powerful influencing force in the Isles that homogenizes the heterogeneous peoples of the British Isles. Drier and more cynical historians will call this romanticizing, but these are the historians who can't see the forest for the trees—who ignore realities in the face of popular skepticism.
When did Britannia begin her gentle, moulding influence on me? I think it's safe to say some of it began before my birth; three of my four grandparents carried Scottish last names, and the remaining one owned a generic British name that I carry as well. It's in my blood, from my kilt-owning grandfather to my genetically-derived brooding black Irish personality. From birth, however, the influence only increased. Some of it was subtle, some of it was blatant. My favorite movie for many of my single-digit years was Robin Hood, and my favorite story was probably the Arthurian legend; and I dreamt of both Cross-clad Templars and blue-painted Picts. I enjoyed the accents of Sean Connery and Patrick Stewart, without even thinking of their origins. I loved the Chronicles of Narnia—and though in first grade when I stumbled graciously across them I didn't think past the story to its author or even much about the Englishness of the children, Britishness was definitely woven into the tale and continued its work on me. Louis L'amour's Sackett series struck a resounding note inside of me, and though the setting was largely American, the context was primarily British. Then there were Mary Stewart and T.H. White and their quite different Arthurian legends. Tolkien picked up where the earlier writers of Britain left off, joined in time by Sir Walter Scott, Rudyard Kipling, Robert Louis Stevenson, and the Romantic Poets. TV shows like Highlander and old movies entertained me probably more than their merits would demand, and even pictures of Highland Glens and lake-rimmed forgotten castles moved me strongly.
When I began to think on such things (probably too early in my life) I tended to favour the British in the American Revolution. Something about the lack of loyalty to the Old Country bothered me (and still does) and I never heard a convincing reason why war should have been declared. But it's not so much for the rational tension, but the emotional attachment, that part of me would have like for us to remain a part of the British Empire. When studying WWI and WWII, the tenacity of the British impressed me somewhat more than the resources of the Americans. But I've always seen Britain in America; in little things like the forgotten influence of the Scotch-Irish accent on Southern speech mannerisms, the fiddle-driven music of Appalachia, and the place names; as well as the more important elements like the Christian heritage, the ingenuity, the determination to be involved in world affairs. The similarities of the Declaration of Arbroath and the Declaration of Independence are not taught enough, and neither is the common origin of the American and the British legal systems.
For a while, I focused chiefly on my Scottish heritage together with the pull Ireland had on me; Braveheart stirred me and brought clearly before my eyes my Wallace heritage, and the book Captains and the Kings pushed me permanently over onto the Irish side of their troubles with England. Reading Stephen R. Lawhead reinforced my Celtic preference. I'm still a Celtophile at heart, although I embrace more consciously now the influences Englishness had on me, and the inherent value in it. Scotland, however, remains what is most "home" about Britain—for now, at least.
I remember my first trip to Scotland; a mere month's stay in the summer before my senior year of high school. After a recognized love of things Scottish and Celtic and "Highlander," I rightly knew that my trips into the Highlands would stir a feeling of homecoming within me. I expected rather less from the town wherein I would pass most of my days—the lovely little seaside university town of St Andrews. I expected to enjoy, appreciate, like it, but it wasn't what I identified "Scotland" with. Nevertheless, my first overpowering feeling of being home did not occur visiting the Highlands or a crumbling castle, but instead came upon me one of my first days in St Andrews. I remember walking through an alleyway, a tight corridor of gray and rough-cut stone, and seeing a small garden outside the window of a quite British looking house…and that's all it took. Nothing grand, or noteworthy, or even unique; just something simple and British, and I knew part of me belonged. That's not to say that the feeling was not repeated upon Highland hill or coast-clinging castle, but it showed me how deeply this intangible and vague "Britishness" was a part of me. It was not a tourist's wonder at the magnificent, nor even a traveller's appreciation for the unique, but a man's familiarity with a place he belongs.
C. S. Lewis has, perhaps, been the most influential figure on my intellectual growth. I see in his writings the manner of thinking I believe God intended for me to exhibit, as well as an openness, a resoluteness, a genuine love, and a deep appreciation for myth and old ways and certain values that I was made to develop. The Chronicles deserve a certain primacy of place as my introduction to the man and what he values—and an understanding of the loving and sovereign touch of God upon His world that is woven throughout everything Lewis wrote. Mere Christianity offers a certain "completeness," while the Screwtape Letters might have been the book that led to me continuing to open up Lewis books. The Great Divorce is wonderfully fresh and deep and real, and the Weight of Glory is a recent blessing. Lewis's Space Trilogy presented me with a much needed insight into Adam and Eve, as well as providing in That Hideous Strength one of my absolute favorite books of all time. But it's not just his deeply feeling wisdom or rich Christianity that draws me…his Englishness does as well. The scene of meeting with Tolkien and Charles Williams within the Eagle and Child Pub in Oxford (a lovely and quite small pub with a lasting feel about the place) and discussing ideas, or the image of taking brisk but unhurried walks throughout Oxford or the English countryside, these resonate strongly with me.
My year at St Andrews University could be the subject of many journalings itself, but suffice it to say here that it made Britain's influence on me ever more real; not only did I live in Scotland and soak with its rain and chill with its wind, but I met Scot and Englishman and Irishman, again and again and again. I ate in the homes of British people; bangers, neeps, and tatties in a Scottish reverend's house, Irish stew made by a Northern Irish friend's mother, English pub food at the Eagle and Child. I traveled in Germany and Poland and Italy as well, but it was always going "out"—and not just because I was leaving my residence; I was traveling away from home into the rest of the world. I still miss and remember vividly things from my year in Scotland; walking upon North Street or the Scores, sitting on the shore of the North Sea, and little things like how the library was set up and how the St Andrews coffee shops smelled.
Recently, reading "A Severe Mercy" has reinvigorated and expanded my feelings for Britain. The author, Sheldon Vanauken, reminds me deeply of myself; I've seen in CS Lewis a model for how I was made to think and a man who valued what I value. In Vanauken, I see a man who felt like I feel, even from our childhoods; who has the same deeply held convictions about love and beauty, literature and family, home and travel. Vanauken, like me, was born in the US. He, also, knew from an early age that Britain was a part of him. It's tempting to go into the wonderful and challenging things I got from reading "A Severe Mercy," but I'll stick with how it applies to my fascination with Britain. Vanauken's time in Oxford renewed my desire to spend large quantities of time there; his words highlight how special and unique a place it is, how utterly appropriate it is for my mind and sentiments.
And so, partially due to reading "A Severe Mercy," but more so due to other, lifelong factors, my old desire to study (again) in Britain is becoming more unavoidable. Maybe it's to be reading History or Theology at Oxford, or returning to St Andrews to study International Relations or Divinity and Theology…but either seems more appropriate, and even more likely right now, than law school in the US. So, once again, I'm brought to a strong fascination for Britannia—the birthplace of so much history, poetry, literature, ideas, and of so many heroes, travelers, churchmen. Who can not love it?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
On the Inertia of the Soul: or, the Difference between Radical and Liberal
Have you ever noticed that as people age, they get more set in their ways? I suppose that's an obvious-enough observation. Well, have you ever read a book that opens your eyes in a way that matters, known that this book (or movie, sermon, conversation, or song) should change you in a meaningful way, and then gone on with only the new information and no life change? Or has your heart been stirred by something…a taste of the sublime, a long-awaited truth, a call to inspired life…and yet you've found yourself unable to implement that moment?
I'm not talking about the conviction of sin and its stubborn, parasitic (but fading) grip on our lives. I'm asking whether you've encountered a truth that you know (with the urgent certainty of the heart, not the head) that is for you, and yet it passes into obscurity as just another instant of insight. Does it seem that books or sermons that should shape us tend to have less lasting effect the older we get? How life-defining it can be for a young child to first encounter God through hearing the Gospel preached; it can mold his values, his mindset, his course, far easier (it seems) that a powerful sermon can move a well rounded adult. Or a young boy who first watches "Braveheart" or "Robin Hood," or reads "The Lord of the Rings" or "The Chronicles of Narnia"…he doesn't hear observations about courage or sacrifice, fellowship or morality: he hears a very real and answerable call to these virtues. True, a grown man hears these calls as well. But it's more difficult to believe they are answerable; the calls come through a tangled morass of experience, cynicism, culture, and that killer of all passionate activity—the "practical."
Now, I know this is, to some degree, a necessity. The younger we are the fewer voices weigh against a call of truth. The older we grow the more experience has taught us that it is the natural tendency of things to drift toward a medium, not extremes—anything that sounds extreme, or radical, or passionate, can be too easily dismissed as an affront to common sense or one view among many. And yet, regardless of its cause, this inertia of the soul is often a problem, and one that should be confronted. Inertia: the resistance to a change in direction or speed; the reluctance of the soul to act rather than just listen.
What brought about these thoughts? Well, in part it was the books I've been reading. Over the summer I read "Blue Like Jazz" and "Velvet Elvis" and just now started "The Irresistible Revolution." These are Christian books written by socially active believers for the socially aware, the complacent, and the unsatisfied alike. They are calls to break from the stagnant and accepted forms of religion in our culture and embrace a spirituality that is centered on the Way of Christ, rather than human traditions; as Rob Bell put it, "to follow in the Dust of the Rabbi." They connect to books I've read over the years: "Wild at Heart" and (especially) "Waking the Dead" by John Eldredge, "Ruthless Trust" by Brennan Manning, and "Don't Waste Your Life" by Piper, as well as others. There is this theme, not at all confined to the beliefs of a small minority, that the Western Church is (generally) not as life-giving, as socially motivated, or as spiritually genuine as it could—and should—be. In short, there is no shortage of observations that complacency and even apathy are issues in the church. They have been for a while. The ideas of change, the ways to change, are out there: read Rob Bell or Shane Claiborne, or read Eldredge as speaking to the church and not just the individual. We know there is poverty in Africa and Asia (not to mention America), and we know that Followers of the Way of Christ are called to feed the sick and hungry. We know that moral relativity is an obscene assault on Biblical Truth, and that we are to stand on the Rock and not be moved. We know that the fates of nations—our own included—are transient and unimportant compared to the eternality of a single soul. We know that what we see and hear and say and who we spend time with affect us in a very real way (how often does one need to hear "garbage in, garbage out"?), and we know we are supposed to think on whatever is true, noble, pure, right, lovely, and worthy of praise. We know these things, and deep down we know that the Church is not a denomination, a building, a part of culture, or a club…it is the very Bride of Christ, above country or culture, and decidedly not something that belongs to the affluent West.
We know these things, we read these things, and still we go about our lives seeking after the "American Dream" (absolutely NOT a Christian ideal) and idolizing Democracy (not a Christian philosophy) and practicing tolerance (a far cry from spiritual patience). Why is that? How can someone read "Velvet Elvis" and go about their lives the same way, with only a new piece for theological conversation, seeing it as an issue for debate rather than a call to action? And just so you know, I'm speaking to myself most of all; I know the books I've read, the messages I've heard, and the movies I've watched, and I know the direction I should be moving.
I think for some Christians, the socially aware "left" has scared them away from activism. Some Christians may associate feeding the poor, loving across boundaries, non-religious spirituality, valuing God's natural creation, and noticing the oppression in other countries (including the oppression which drives the desperate across our borders) with encouraging people not to work, sentimentality, liberal and unbiblical Christianity, tree-hugging, and a lack of patriotism (note well: extreme patriotism is portrayed in an unfavorable light in the New Testament as concerns the Jews…and after all, it is they who are God's nation). If so, it's a shame that can probably be best laid at the feet of the religious right. We ignore the fact that Jesus was a radical in the truest sense. If we notice this, it is often with discomfort, for we think that means He was a liberal, with all the connotations we associate with that word. Now, there is a little etymological difference between "liberal" and "radical." The Oxford English Dictionary defines "liberal" (in the sense we are using it) as: "1. Free in bestowing; bountiful, generous, open-hearted. 2. Free from bigotry or unreasonable prejudice in favour of traditional opinions or established institutions; open to the reception of new ideas or proposals of reform. 3. Favourable to constitutional changes and legal or administrative reforms tending in the direction of freedom or democracy" (notice the third definition…according to it, our actions in Iraq are liberal. See how we have corrupted the word?) This may be slightly off, but to me "liberal" has connotations (in most Christian circles today) of meaning weak on morals, strong on taxes, and staunchly anti-war. With "liberal," we tend to associate accessory labels such as pro-choice (a cruel euphemism if ever there was one), pro-gay rights, anti-God in schools and government, anti-guns. Many Christians frown on the term "liberal" because they can't (rightly) ever imagine Jesus condoning abortion. And yet He was clearly a Radical.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines "radical" as: "1. Departing from tradition; innovative or progressive. [check one for Jesus] 2. An advocate of radical political or social reform. [check two for Jesus] 3. Relating to or affecting the fundamental nature of something. [check three for Jesus]" It seems to me that "radical" simply means that you care, that you desire change in the world, and that you believe our actions matter…and can count for the good.
So, I asked myself above, "what brought about these thoughts?" and it is more than the books I've been reading. It's also an increasing awareness of the rest of the world. I suppose that process started with my year in Scotland, and both living in another country and developing friendships with people from many diverse cultures. Travelling throughout Europe—and especially Israel—also gave me plenty of fuel for reflection. Learning about tragedies in Africa—both historical ones and the current crises, represented first in my experience by Darfur and most keenly by the situation in Northern Uganda highlighted by Invisible Children—makes one unable to ignore the cry of wounded humanity throughout the world. It makes one wonder how we can go about our lives and do nothing for those dying from AIDS and malaria in sub-Saharan Africa, suffering from political oppression and tyranny in Burma, encountering religious persecution in the Middle East, and the guys downtown losing their lives to drugs—not to mention two generations in Europe and the rest of the West selling their souls to moral relativity and humanism and pleasure. I look around and see the same world that hesitated to enter another World War to save the Jews, and only acted because attacked—what shame. Really, I see the same world that persecuted and brutalized them; that spirit is still alive and well in Iran, among many other places. I see the same world that bought and sold and treated like animals their fellow man, all in the name of profit. I see a world that ignores the brutality visited upon Tibet and the poor of Beijing by China, ignores genocide in Africa, ignores the even more deadly genocide in our own country waged against the unborn. I look at crises both past and present, and I don't wonder, "Where is our country?" as if we Americans are somehow more prone to fix than harm. I look and wonder, "Where is our church?"
This is not an attempt to produce feelings of guilt for being well off. All blessings come from God, and it is a blessing to be affluent. However, when that affluence is poured into the empty maw of Entertainment and Comfort, I wonder. I will not use Jesus' words, "Go, sell all you possess and give to the poor, and follow Me" to advocate embracing poverty; those words were spoken to an individual, and the command cannot be expounded to everyone. Nonetheless, the Truth of His words rings true for all. There is a command within, though it's not as specific for us…still, we are to value Jesus above all, and be highly attuned to the fact that possessions can get in the way. Not only that, but our brothers and sisters are in need. What did Jesus’ own brother say true religion was? Looking after widows and orphans (and, of course, keeping oneself from being polluted by the world: this is something the left tends to ignore). No, I'm not trying to induce guilt, only urgency.
I'm not talking about the conviction of sin and its stubborn, parasitic (but fading) grip on our lives. I'm asking whether you've encountered a truth that you know (with the urgent certainty of the heart, not the head) that is for you, and yet it passes into obscurity as just another instant of insight. Does it seem that books or sermons that should shape us tend to have less lasting effect the older we get? How life-defining it can be for a young child to first encounter God through hearing the Gospel preached; it can mold his values, his mindset, his course, far easier (it seems) that a powerful sermon can move a well rounded adult. Or a young boy who first watches "Braveheart" or "Robin Hood," or reads "The Lord of the Rings" or "The Chronicles of Narnia"…he doesn't hear observations about courage or sacrifice, fellowship or morality: he hears a very real and answerable call to these virtues. True, a grown man hears these calls as well. But it's more difficult to believe they are answerable; the calls come through a tangled morass of experience, cynicism, culture, and that killer of all passionate activity—the "practical."
Now, I know this is, to some degree, a necessity. The younger we are the fewer voices weigh against a call of truth. The older we grow the more experience has taught us that it is the natural tendency of things to drift toward a medium, not extremes—anything that sounds extreme, or radical, or passionate, can be too easily dismissed as an affront to common sense or one view among many. And yet, regardless of its cause, this inertia of the soul is often a problem, and one that should be confronted. Inertia: the resistance to a change in direction or speed; the reluctance of the soul to act rather than just listen.
What brought about these thoughts? Well, in part it was the books I've been reading. Over the summer I read "Blue Like Jazz" and "Velvet Elvis" and just now started "The Irresistible Revolution." These are Christian books written by socially active believers for the socially aware, the complacent, and the unsatisfied alike. They are calls to break from the stagnant and accepted forms of religion in our culture and embrace a spirituality that is centered on the Way of Christ, rather than human traditions; as Rob Bell put it, "to follow in the Dust of the Rabbi." They connect to books I've read over the years: "Wild at Heart" and (especially) "Waking the Dead" by John Eldredge, "Ruthless Trust" by Brennan Manning, and "Don't Waste Your Life" by Piper, as well as others. There is this theme, not at all confined to the beliefs of a small minority, that the Western Church is (generally) not as life-giving, as socially motivated, or as spiritually genuine as it could—and should—be. In short, there is no shortage of observations that complacency and even apathy are issues in the church. They have been for a while. The ideas of change, the ways to change, are out there: read Rob Bell or Shane Claiborne, or read Eldredge as speaking to the church and not just the individual. We know there is poverty in Africa and Asia (not to mention America), and we know that Followers of the Way of Christ are called to feed the sick and hungry. We know that moral relativity is an obscene assault on Biblical Truth, and that we are to stand on the Rock and not be moved. We know that the fates of nations—our own included—are transient and unimportant compared to the eternality of a single soul. We know that what we see and hear and say and who we spend time with affect us in a very real way (how often does one need to hear "garbage in, garbage out"?), and we know we are supposed to think on whatever is true, noble, pure, right, lovely, and worthy of praise. We know these things, and deep down we know that the Church is not a denomination, a building, a part of culture, or a club…it is the very Bride of Christ, above country or culture, and decidedly not something that belongs to the affluent West.
We know these things, we read these things, and still we go about our lives seeking after the "American Dream" (absolutely NOT a Christian ideal) and idolizing Democracy (not a Christian philosophy) and practicing tolerance (a far cry from spiritual patience). Why is that? How can someone read "Velvet Elvis" and go about their lives the same way, with only a new piece for theological conversation, seeing it as an issue for debate rather than a call to action? And just so you know, I'm speaking to myself most of all; I know the books I've read, the messages I've heard, and the movies I've watched, and I know the direction I should be moving.
I think for some Christians, the socially aware "left" has scared them away from activism. Some Christians may associate feeding the poor, loving across boundaries, non-religious spirituality, valuing God's natural creation, and noticing the oppression in other countries (including the oppression which drives the desperate across our borders) with encouraging people not to work, sentimentality, liberal and unbiblical Christianity, tree-hugging, and a lack of patriotism (note well: extreme patriotism is portrayed in an unfavorable light in the New Testament as concerns the Jews…and after all, it is they who are God's nation). If so, it's a shame that can probably be best laid at the feet of the religious right. We ignore the fact that Jesus was a radical in the truest sense. If we notice this, it is often with discomfort, for we think that means He was a liberal, with all the connotations we associate with that word. Now, there is a little etymological difference between "liberal" and "radical." The Oxford English Dictionary defines "liberal" (in the sense we are using it) as: "1. Free in bestowing; bountiful, generous, open-hearted. 2. Free from bigotry or unreasonable prejudice in favour of traditional opinions or established institutions; open to the reception of new ideas or proposals of reform. 3. Favourable to constitutional changes and legal or administrative reforms tending in the direction of freedom or democracy" (notice the third definition…according to it, our actions in Iraq are liberal. See how we have corrupted the word?) This may be slightly off, but to me "liberal" has connotations (in most Christian circles today) of meaning weak on morals, strong on taxes, and staunchly anti-war. With "liberal," we tend to associate accessory labels such as pro-choice (a cruel euphemism if ever there was one), pro-gay rights, anti-God in schools and government, anti-guns. Many Christians frown on the term "liberal" because they can't (rightly) ever imagine Jesus condoning abortion. And yet He was clearly a Radical.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines "radical" as: "1. Departing from tradition; innovative or progressive. [check one for Jesus] 2. An advocate of radical political or social reform. [check two for Jesus] 3. Relating to or affecting the fundamental nature of something. [check three for Jesus]" It seems to me that "radical" simply means that you care, that you desire change in the world, and that you believe our actions matter…and can count for the good.
So, I asked myself above, "what brought about these thoughts?" and it is more than the books I've been reading. It's also an increasing awareness of the rest of the world. I suppose that process started with my year in Scotland, and both living in another country and developing friendships with people from many diverse cultures. Travelling throughout Europe—and especially Israel—also gave me plenty of fuel for reflection. Learning about tragedies in Africa—both historical ones and the current crises, represented first in my experience by Darfur and most keenly by the situation in Northern Uganda highlighted by Invisible Children—makes one unable to ignore the cry of wounded humanity throughout the world. It makes one wonder how we can go about our lives and do nothing for those dying from AIDS and malaria in sub-Saharan Africa, suffering from political oppression and tyranny in Burma, encountering religious persecution in the Middle East, and the guys downtown losing their lives to drugs—not to mention two generations in Europe and the rest of the West selling their souls to moral relativity and humanism and pleasure. I look around and see the same world that hesitated to enter another World War to save the Jews, and only acted because attacked—what shame. Really, I see the same world that persecuted and brutalized them; that spirit is still alive and well in Iran, among many other places. I see the same world that bought and sold and treated like animals their fellow man, all in the name of profit. I see a world that ignores the brutality visited upon Tibet and the poor of Beijing by China, ignores genocide in Africa, ignores the even more deadly genocide in our own country waged against the unborn. I look at crises both past and present, and I don't wonder, "Where is our country?" as if we Americans are somehow more prone to fix than harm. I look and wonder, "Where is our church?"
This is not an attempt to produce feelings of guilt for being well off. All blessings come from God, and it is a blessing to be affluent. However, when that affluence is poured into the empty maw of Entertainment and Comfort, I wonder. I will not use Jesus' words, "Go, sell all you possess and give to the poor, and follow Me" to advocate embracing poverty; those words were spoken to an individual, and the command cannot be expounded to everyone. Nonetheless, the Truth of His words rings true for all. There is a command within, though it's not as specific for us…still, we are to value Jesus above all, and be highly attuned to the fact that possessions can get in the way. Not only that, but our brothers and sisters are in need. What did Jesus’ own brother say true religion was? Looking after widows and orphans (and, of course, keeping oneself from being polluted by the world: this is something the left tends to ignore). No, I'm not trying to induce guilt, only urgency.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Purpose
"The man without a purpose is like a ship without a rudder—a waif, a nothing, a no man." --Thomas Carlyle
"You, Lord, give perfect peace to those who keep their purpose firm and put their trust in You." --Isaiah 26:3
I believe that every man's purpose is to know and love God, most evidently through God the Son, Jesus Christ. Along these lines, JH Ranch teaches the G.O.D Purpose: a Heart of Gratitude, a Soul of Obedience, and a Mind of Dependence. And I agree with this; in my 4 summers of involvement with the Ranch, I haven't heard any better acrostic, no better summary to teach about one's God-gifted purpose. I do not argue with the truth of Ranch wisdom, but the reality is that a child of God's purpose is not merely an insightful acrostic or well-phrased summary. It is more than that; infinitely individual as well as ultimately universal. Stating that our purpose is to know and love God is blessedly accurate, but is simplified. One's call, one's purpose, is intimate, personal, and individual; the basic, general, and unshakeable truth of the G.O.D. Purpose is a frame in which the Father builds each masterpiece, the clay on which God breathes His animating breath, the lens through which God focuses an individual beam of light. I think Oswald Chambers says this more vividly than I can: "the call of God can never be stated explicitly; it is implicit. The call of God is like the call of the sea, no one hears it but the one who has the nature of the sea in him. It cannot be stated definitely what the call of God is to, because His call is to be in comradeship with Himself for His own purposes." Like the call of the sea, God's call on a life is specific to that life.
I think most everyone mulls long hours about what his or her purpose is. With my brooding Celtic streak, I've probably done this more than most…too much, in some regards. For to some degree we are not meant to illuminate clearly our purpose through careful introspection, but rather trust that God will reveal it in and through us as we grow closer in our walk with Him. We are meant to follow, not to understand. However, I think God places desires (and abilities) in our hearts for very specific reasons, and discovering their purpose is somewhere between a quest, an adventure, and a lesson.
So what clues are there to the purposes God has crafted for me? What sort of man does He want me to be? I feel that career is only a small part of this, but a good enough place to start. I've never been sold on any career; as a small boy, I wanted to be a zoologist, but only because of my love for animals, not due to any specifics of what a zoologist does. I've been drawn to literature, international relations, history, biology, physics, and considered careers in law, teaching, ministry, missions, writing, and several other potential callings. But the problem is, I don't think I'm made for any clear-cut occupation. I see this by looking at individuals I admire; take CS Lewis for example. He's a professor and a writer, two things I could imagine myself pursuing, and what he does is clearly for the glory of God. Nonetheless…there are things missing from his life that would be felt keenly by my heart. The sailing of Lewis's friend Sheldon Vanauken, for example; weeks and months out on the open waves, with wind a lifeline and a threat. That quasi-nomadic existence, wandering and yet always at home with his soul-mate, bound by no schedule but God's…Lewis's scholarly life would restrict me beyond expression. Steve Irwin—what a perfect avatar of my love for animals. Traveling to places near and distant, teaching while learning, working side by side with his wife—and for a short time, his daughter—and taking seriously the stewardship of Creation. And yet, for all my empathetic appreciation for the natural world, I am not quite a tree-hugger (not to imply Steve Irwin was): though I cannot refute the value of animals and plants alike, I have no desire to ignore the superior value of God's image-bearers and sub-creators. I could not ignore the desperate plights of the poverty-stricken and affluent both; the need for God and human love throughout every land. I could not give my life almost exclusively to animals, and would not seek to. Purpose is never found in career, but it must be mentioned that career should never impede purpose. My purpose is something that takes advantage of the diverse values and affinities God built into my heart; this is of course true for anyone.
There are other individuals whose lives I admire, both living and dead, but I know that the only life I should model myself after is Christ's. And yet, that is mostly on a spiritual, moral, emotional, and relational level: we are not called to all express Christ by fitting into a specific practical mold. Still, following Christ is the key, as always. We discover our purpose by surrendering completely to God, giving up even our desires and hopes for the future, and find that those desires and hopes were only very rough drafts for the fulfilled purpose of one's life. I think that is part of what is meant by: "Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it." Still, I think that the desires within our hearts are at least a good hint of what God wants us to do with our lives—the signposts on the path of our personal walk with the Heavenly Father. After all, the Christian has this truth: "I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws." (Ezekiel 36:26-27) Once freed from the bondage to sin, he is freed to follow his heart. What remains is to discern what that entails.
"You, Lord, give perfect peace to those who keep their purpose firm and put their trust in You." --Isaiah 26:3
I believe that every man's purpose is to know and love God, most evidently through God the Son, Jesus Christ. Along these lines, JH Ranch teaches the G.O.D Purpose: a Heart of Gratitude, a Soul of Obedience, and a Mind of Dependence. And I agree with this; in my 4 summers of involvement with the Ranch, I haven't heard any better acrostic, no better summary to teach about one's God-gifted purpose. I do not argue with the truth of Ranch wisdom, but the reality is that a child of God's purpose is not merely an insightful acrostic or well-phrased summary. It is more than that; infinitely individual as well as ultimately universal. Stating that our purpose is to know and love God is blessedly accurate, but is simplified. One's call, one's purpose, is intimate, personal, and individual; the basic, general, and unshakeable truth of the G.O.D. Purpose is a frame in which the Father builds each masterpiece, the clay on which God breathes His animating breath, the lens through which God focuses an individual beam of light. I think Oswald Chambers says this more vividly than I can: "the call of God can never be stated explicitly; it is implicit. The call of God is like the call of the sea, no one hears it but the one who has the nature of the sea in him. It cannot be stated definitely what the call of God is to, because His call is to be in comradeship with Himself for His own purposes." Like the call of the sea, God's call on a life is specific to that life.
I think most everyone mulls long hours about what his or her purpose is. With my brooding Celtic streak, I've probably done this more than most…too much, in some regards. For to some degree we are not meant to illuminate clearly our purpose through careful introspection, but rather trust that God will reveal it in and through us as we grow closer in our walk with Him. We are meant to follow, not to understand. However, I think God places desires (and abilities) in our hearts for very specific reasons, and discovering their purpose is somewhere between a quest, an adventure, and a lesson.
So what clues are there to the purposes God has crafted for me? What sort of man does He want me to be? I feel that career is only a small part of this, but a good enough place to start. I've never been sold on any career; as a small boy, I wanted to be a zoologist, but only because of my love for animals, not due to any specifics of what a zoologist does. I've been drawn to literature, international relations, history, biology, physics, and considered careers in law, teaching, ministry, missions, writing, and several other potential callings. But the problem is, I don't think I'm made for any clear-cut occupation. I see this by looking at individuals I admire; take CS Lewis for example. He's a professor and a writer, two things I could imagine myself pursuing, and what he does is clearly for the glory of God. Nonetheless…there are things missing from his life that would be felt keenly by my heart. The sailing of Lewis's friend Sheldon Vanauken, for example; weeks and months out on the open waves, with wind a lifeline and a threat. That quasi-nomadic existence, wandering and yet always at home with his soul-mate, bound by no schedule but God's…Lewis's scholarly life would restrict me beyond expression. Steve Irwin—what a perfect avatar of my love for animals. Traveling to places near and distant, teaching while learning, working side by side with his wife—and for a short time, his daughter—and taking seriously the stewardship of Creation. And yet, for all my empathetic appreciation for the natural world, I am not quite a tree-hugger (not to imply Steve Irwin was): though I cannot refute the value of animals and plants alike, I have no desire to ignore the superior value of God's image-bearers and sub-creators. I could not ignore the desperate plights of the poverty-stricken and affluent both; the need for God and human love throughout every land. I could not give my life almost exclusively to animals, and would not seek to. Purpose is never found in career, but it must be mentioned that career should never impede purpose. My purpose is something that takes advantage of the diverse values and affinities God built into my heart; this is of course true for anyone.
There are other individuals whose lives I admire, both living and dead, but I know that the only life I should model myself after is Christ's. And yet, that is mostly on a spiritual, moral, emotional, and relational level: we are not called to all express Christ by fitting into a specific practical mold. Still, following Christ is the key, as always. We discover our purpose by surrendering completely to God, giving up even our desires and hopes for the future, and find that those desires and hopes were only very rough drafts for the fulfilled purpose of one's life. I think that is part of what is meant by: "Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it." Still, I think that the desires within our hearts are at least a good hint of what God wants us to do with our lives—the signposts on the path of our personal walk with the Heavenly Father. After all, the Christian has this truth: "I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws." (Ezekiel 36:26-27) Once freed from the bondage to sin, he is freed to follow his heart. What remains is to discern what that entails.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Thoughts Outloud
What was it that CS Lewis said? Pain is God's megaphone to the human race? That is so true, but God does not use simple pain to make us hear; it's through disturbing our well-fashioned self-assurances that God directs us onward. Every jolt and defeat on the roads we try to walk on our own bring us closer to that surrender of self that sets us on the freshly laid yet well planned path the Lord has for us. An easy life is no blessing, for truly living is about standing, walking, pushing forward desperately and defiantly; in defiance not to God's sovereign Good Will, but to our own independence. A life with no crisis is a novel with no climax, a story without a point. Our childhoods are often carefree; or at least, that is the ideal that is all too often unmet in these days. It is typically in adolescence that we seek to break free and 'define' ourselves, though it seems that usually we only end up fitting more readily into the mold that society shapes for us. But somewhere along the way, we hopefully come to a point where our resources are not enough, our assumptions about the world and ultimately ourselves fall short, a valley where we forget or cast aside our identity. Maybe we lose that identity, so that we can find it again in Christ, but key is the fact that we are no longer sure who we are. It is an uncomplicated affair to then bolster our confidence with other believers, to let them tell us who we are. With those who are naturally prone to rely heavily upon others, this is done without much hesitation. Those who can't escape the notion that they knew themselves at a young age as individuals, though, sometimes have a lingering doubt as to what is expected of them. Does growing closer to God mean becoming an image of other Christians? Does crucifying yourself with Christ mean losing the kid in you that dreamed? Such questions can plague the mind that wants to seek after the Lord, that wants to know Him, but is besieged by the un-reconciled thought that he can do this best in the guise God fashioned for him in his innocent childhood. Are his dreams and passions, lost somewhere in the unapproachable battlefield of his half-hearted struggle for maturity, included in the beckoning call, "When you seek me with all your heart, I will be found by you?"
Some acquired habits and characteristics obviously need casting aside for a boy to become a man after God's own heart. The character flaws, of course, are readily pointed to as unwelcome. But when a boy makes a monument to his own integrity, that too has to be abandoned. The pride deeply engrained in his sense of honesty, honor, courage, trustworthiness, it is still pride--the most dangerous kind, perhaps. It deceives him as to his own independence, blinds him to his essential need for others. Not only a need for God, though that is paramount, but he has also to accept a reliance on others, let it humble him, and eventually come to embrace that reliance. I've heard it said that love isn't about needing people, but that can't be true. We need God, and love Him. We need others, and so we can love them, too. God certainly doesn't need us, strictly, but His love for us does create a certain desperation for our fellowship, a need that was highlighted sublimely by His Son's Death.
And so, difficulties, defeats, disappointments, and even disasters in our life break down the walls of our fortress of security and self-reliance. Situations that bring us to the point of total loss, even after our salvation, are not necessarily trials; they can be God's desperate attempt to guide us away from the harmful obsolete habits of our old nature. Habits of turning inward, not upward. Habits of shutting down our hearts, rather than bleeding them out before the Father. Habits of thinking our own strength is enough. And yet, all that said there is still, I believe, a need to recapture something of the child in us. Not in the obvious way of coming to the Lord as a child; I think that has to do with childlike trust and an uncomplicated viewpoint. I mean recapturing the vision of who we wanted to be as children, and not the vision influenced by worldliness and culture, but the one that came from Deep Within. The man glimpsed half-knowingly in that best sort of dream, and the man undeveloped that yearned to be the heroes and adventurers in the stories that appealed for some unfathomed reason. God's call comes threaded uniquely to us, Oswald Chambers says, speaking of the private relationship between our soul and Him. That uniqueness goes beyond talents and vocation and personality. There is a unity among believers in our Spirit-encompassed rebirthed lives, but the Creator made individuals. I think, ideally, we find that perfect balance encompassing individuality and dependence. God, I must believe, wants us to experience those same dreams and passions we had as children (the true dreams, not the worldly distractions), but ever so more richly for being attached to Him.
When I reread 'The Voyage of the Dawn Treader' for the first time since junior high, I found a dog-eared page marking a quote that resonated strongly back then, strongly enough to cause me to fold a corner before I grew comfortable with that book-lover's guilty pleasure. It was when the children met Ramandu, and found out he was a star. Eustace pointed out that in our world, stars were huge, flaming balls of gas. I love Ramandu's response now as much as I remember loving it then: "Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of." I tend to think that the desperate, final surrender to God—that point that goes beyond casual phrases like "born again," that can happen long after salvation—the true alignment of our only hope with Him, this reveals what we are made of. Perhaps it remakes us after a manner, for of course we are new creatures in Christ. But after that spiritual high point—sometimes paired with an emotional low point—there is still a search to discover what we are.
I can think of no clear Scripture to support or disprove this idea, honestly I'm not trying too hard to, but I think that there are hints in our childhood of what we are meant to become. This is no imperative to recapture the essence of our innocence; still, I think it brings joy to God's heart when we reconcile the little kid that dreamt of an unimpeachable honor, and the man who confronts the reality that he is less worthy than the worst fairy tale villain without the Light of this world. The first step in that reconciliation, that catharsis of sorts, is the acceptance that God was in complete and loving control at the season of his breaking. The man must abandon the bitterness that accompanies the awareness of his own insufficiency, and relish the All-inclusive Sufficiency of the Cross. He must not trod forward with forlorn resignation, but spring after the certain hope of marching from victory to victory with joy, peace, love, and all that good stuff. Utterly important, though, is that he avoid simply recapturing the status quo of his childhood. We are not made for nostalgia. But to regain those characteristics that were unwillingly torn away to make us fit for crucifixion, the ones that spark humble, honest flames within us, this is good. God may have torn down the walls of our pride when we refused Him entry to our inner sanctum, but those same walls newly fashioned can become the expression of His dwelling place in our hearts. We must enjoy Him having the key to our hearts; more than that, he has utter possession of our hearts, which only find life through His Death. However, the Father Creator knit us together a certain way, and I believe He wants to decorate His dwelling as a grace-centered image of His original blueprint. So dream old dreams, do not shy away from the unchecked passion of a child's pure heart, and live as you are meant to live.
Some acquired habits and characteristics obviously need casting aside for a boy to become a man after God's own heart. The character flaws, of course, are readily pointed to as unwelcome. But when a boy makes a monument to his own integrity, that too has to be abandoned. The pride deeply engrained in his sense of honesty, honor, courage, trustworthiness, it is still pride--the most dangerous kind, perhaps. It deceives him as to his own independence, blinds him to his essential need for others. Not only a need for God, though that is paramount, but he has also to accept a reliance on others, let it humble him, and eventually come to embrace that reliance. I've heard it said that love isn't about needing people, but that can't be true. We need God, and love Him. We need others, and so we can love them, too. God certainly doesn't need us, strictly, but His love for us does create a certain desperation for our fellowship, a need that was highlighted sublimely by His Son's Death.
And so, difficulties, defeats, disappointments, and even disasters in our life break down the walls of our fortress of security and self-reliance. Situations that bring us to the point of total loss, even after our salvation, are not necessarily trials; they can be God's desperate attempt to guide us away from the harmful obsolete habits of our old nature. Habits of turning inward, not upward. Habits of shutting down our hearts, rather than bleeding them out before the Father. Habits of thinking our own strength is enough. And yet, all that said there is still, I believe, a need to recapture something of the child in us. Not in the obvious way of coming to the Lord as a child; I think that has to do with childlike trust and an uncomplicated viewpoint. I mean recapturing the vision of who we wanted to be as children, and not the vision influenced by worldliness and culture, but the one that came from Deep Within. The man glimpsed half-knowingly in that best sort of dream, and the man undeveloped that yearned to be the heroes and adventurers in the stories that appealed for some unfathomed reason. God's call comes threaded uniquely to us, Oswald Chambers says, speaking of the private relationship between our soul and Him. That uniqueness goes beyond talents and vocation and personality. There is a unity among believers in our Spirit-encompassed rebirthed lives, but the Creator made individuals. I think, ideally, we find that perfect balance encompassing individuality and dependence. God, I must believe, wants us to experience those same dreams and passions we had as children (the true dreams, not the worldly distractions), but ever so more richly for being attached to Him.
When I reread 'The Voyage of the Dawn Treader' for the first time since junior high, I found a dog-eared page marking a quote that resonated strongly back then, strongly enough to cause me to fold a corner before I grew comfortable with that book-lover's guilty pleasure. It was when the children met Ramandu, and found out he was a star. Eustace pointed out that in our world, stars were huge, flaming balls of gas. I love Ramandu's response now as much as I remember loving it then: "Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of." I tend to think that the desperate, final surrender to God—that point that goes beyond casual phrases like "born again," that can happen long after salvation—the true alignment of our only hope with Him, this reveals what we are made of. Perhaps it remakes us after a manner, for of course we are new creatures in Christ. But after that spiritual high point—sometimes paired with an emotional low point—there is still a search to discover what we are.
I can think of no clear Scripture to support or disprove this idea, honestly I'm not trying too hard to, but I think that there are hints in our childhood of what we are meant to become. This is no imperative to recapture the essence of our innocence; still, I think it brings joy to God's heart when we reconcile the little kid that dreamt of an unimpeachable honor, and the man who confronts the reality that he is less worthy than the worst fairy tale villain without the Light of this world. The first step in that reconciliation, that catharsis of sorts, is the acceptance that God was in complete and loving control at the season of his breaking. The man must abandon the bitterness that accompanies the awareness of his own insufficiency, and relish the All-inclusive Sufficiency of the Cross. He must not trod forward with forlorn resignation, but spring after the certain hope of marching from victory to victory with joy, peace, love, and all that good stuff. Utterly important, though, is that he avoid simply recapturing the status quo of his childhood. We are not made for nostalgia. But to regain those characteristics that were unwillingly torn away to make us fit for crucifixion, the ones that spark humble, honest flames within us, this is good. God may have torn down the walls of our pride when we refused Him entry to our inner sanctum, but those same walls newly fashioned can become the expression of His dwelling place in our hearts. We must enjoy Him having the key to our hearts; more than that, he has utter possession of our hearts, which only find life through His Death. However, the Father Creator knit us together a certain way, and I believe He wants to decorate His dwelling as a grace-centered image of His original blueprint. So dream old dreams, do not shy away from the unchecked passion of a child's pure heart, and live as you are meant to live.
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