Last week at the Grace Campus Ministries meeting the idea—or necessity, rather—of surrender kept cropping up. We spoke of surrender in the context of trusting in God to provide, and we spoke of surrender in the context of a life of obedience to the Spirit; we spoke of the surrender of our own control and vision, and we spoke of surrendering the expectations of ourselves and others. One conclusion we reached was that often God continues to work on us and put us through stretching circumstances until our vision is Him—not service to Him, or some impersonal concept of good, or other people. We want an idea of where we are going in life—whether God wants us to go to grad school, whether He wants us in seminary, whether He wants us in the country or out of it, an idea of what we are supposed to do in the future. But God is infinitely more concerned with who we are, rather than what we are. He gains nothing by giving us clarity of our future course…He knows the plans He has for us, and they are good plans (Jer 29:11-14). Often, a clear understanding of the work God has for us can distract us from Him Who is to consume our vision. It is when our whole heart seeks God that we find Him; and it is when we find Him that we can be assured of walking out His good plans for us. Where we go in life and what we accomplish is of negligible impact compared to Who we look to for direction, providence, and relationship. God doesn't need our service; in some cases, perhaps, it may be true to say that we need our service to God, as it relates to sanctification…I don't know. But God doesn't, of course, depend on us for good works. He calls us to do justly, love mercy, walk humbly with Him (Micah 6:8), and I believe the focus there is on who we are (crucified with Christ, living only through Him Gal 2:20) rather than what we do. The works flow out of a right heart—evidence of that heart, but by no means the issue—as can be seen from Jesus words on good trees bearing good fruit, as well as other passages. And yet we can so easily get focused on how God can use us, what He wants to accomplish through us, always seeming to want clarity of our situation and/or future more than clarity of His Face.
Here's what Oswald Chambers says about this: "We slander God by our very eagerness to work for Him without knowing Him…This is your line of service - to see that there is nothing between Jesus and yourself." It seems so simple…look to Jesus, abide in Him, be still and know God, trust the Father, surrender to the ministrations of the Spirit; abandon our perceived rights to our perceived control. Where is our planning, our preparation? Our plans are already made, and it is God who takes control of our preparation. It really is that simple. It's not "see that there is nothing between Jesus and yourself" and then, once that's taken care of, proceed to the next step. The entirety of our essential purpose is to know God through the Son to the Glory of the Father.
It's hard to get that solidly in my mind. I said that this is simple; it is not, however, easy. Western culture and human nature both seem to be against us. It seems irresponsible to not have some worry for the future…but is it? C. S. Lewis mentions that we humans are meant to live in neither the past nor the future—but if we must pick one, it is better to live in the past, for at least then we can understand that events are firmly under God's control. When we focus on the future, it is nearly impossible to trust absolutely God's control over circumstances; we don't see that He has every bit as much control over the future as He did (or does) over the past. We become in a small way our own gods, trusting in our control over our path. Oswald Chambers says that the disposition of sin is the idea of "my right to myself." I think this usurped right is easily seen when we find ourselves thinking that we direct our paths and our future well-being depends on our plans. One of JH Ranch's mottos is "Live in the Now;" I think that is one of many of the Ranch's lessons that should be continually developed once a camper is back in the "real world." For the real world preaches a doctrine of individual responsibility over the future of one's life, but we Christians know, along with Jeremiah, that "a man's life is not his own; it is not for man to direct his steps." I suppose this doesn't mean that plans are necessarily bad…but plans held too tightly certainly are. If the motivation in planning is to control where one goes, that's a problem; if the motivation is simply to better understand one's responsibilities in the present, then I think planning is good.
For it is in the present that our responsibility lies…the future doesn't really come into it, nor, I think, does the past. Our purpose is to know God, and to live by the Spirit of God as children of God. Our ideas of the future can, I believe, get in the way of sensing the Spirit in the immediacy of the now. Surrender is not a thing of the future, but a thing of the present. Why then is it so difficult to stay focused on the now and here? Brennan Manning combines those two words, saying our attention should be on the Nowhere: on the immediacy of an intimate relationship with an ever-present Creator to Whom time and place don't really matter. Obedience isn't so much of a choice, but a yielding…a yielding to Christ's sanctifying power, His personality, to the nudges of the Spirit. Perhaps surrender would be much easier if we could step back from our expectations and stifle the distractions of an imagined future: after all, God will be the same in the future as He is in the present, as He has been in the past, and it is to Him we must surrender. And no matter how many times we face Him, our surrender must always take place in the present.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tapestry of Thoughts
Sometimes thoughts are connected, but not linear; sometimes they follow a pattern, yet are not cyclic. Thoughts can weave together as several threads, individually simple but creating a patterned tapestry that is difficult to grasp. This incomprehensibility, I believe, comes from the fact that our focus can rarely raise above our thoughts—our thoughts occupy the level of our understanding—and as from the vantage point of the tapestry itself the overall pattern can't be realized, so it is with our thoughts; the tapestry they form can only be comprehended from some point above the plane of thoughts. In the same way, a person walking through a forest is unable to glimpse the patterned complexity of woods and fields and streams and peaks that the terrain forms in the eyes of a heavenly observer. I say this only to illustrate that while my partial description of the thoughts that follow this introduction may not grant a clear picture of the truths upon which they are woven, they are nevertheless part of a pattern, part of a portrait, that probably can't be understood by considering the thoughts themselves—for they point to or describe a deeper truth. After all, what these thoughts consider is God; I think many of our misconceptions of God come from latching on to one train of thought and following that thread to try to understand Him, instead of realizing that any single thought about God is but one strand in the tapestry portraying Him (I say "portraying" because it's important to realize that all our thoughts about God, even if they are considered perfectly together, do not encompass Him). As a single blue thread tells us next to nothing about the storm-swept ocean scene it helps to form, so a single thought about God—say, the truth that He is merciful—can at times fall short of helping us see God.
Anyway, after that ungainly introduction follows a probably equally ungainly progression of thoughts—which do not, actually, progress one from another but sit side by side, one atop another, crossing and supporting and contrasting one another. None of these thoughts are particularly rare; without thinking too carefully before I say this, I think that none of them are new thoughts for me. But perhaps they have taken a new emphasis as they are visited again, or perhaps I see them more clearly when viewed with their accompanying thoughts.
First thought; so, I was driving back to Auburn from Birmingham a couple nights ago, and I was thinking of my relationship with God. Note: thinking about your relationship with God is in itself not necessarily a good thing—it is the act of relating to, abiding, loving God that we are called to, and often merely thinking about it can take the place of relating within it. Then again, thinking about the relationship can lead to a better understanding of how we should relate…regardless of whether my thinking was a good or bad or neutral thing, I was doing it. And I was thinking mainly of growth, or the lack of it. In particular, I believe that as I listened to praise songs and remembered how I've responded to them in the past, I wondered whether I was closer or further from God than I was, say, three years ago. Now, forget the doctrinal issues of whether or not a Christian can be any closer or further from God, as he is in Christ and Christ is in him…my purpose here isn't theological. The point is my thoughts that tended towards an awareness that my only consistency seems to be a continual inconsistency; I was somewhat frustrated—this is a common theme—at how I am not satisfied with where I am spiritually, how with everything God has done for, through, to, and around me I should be so much more continually on fire for Him. And I know how this belief falls short of reality, and I know where it springs from reality. It is both untrue and it's indicative of what is true…in any case, God has shown me countless times before that regardless of where I fall short, He always measures up; He is faithful, even when I am not. And I knew this even as I lamented my faithlessness, that regardless of mistakes, shortcomings, and downright disobedience, God works through and for me consistently and successfully. But a chord was definitely struck when Matt Redman's song "You never let go" came on. Really, it's just the truth described in that title…that though our grip is transient at best, His is eternal. It was quite an encouraging reminder, even though it's something I was already aware of, which is often the case. That's really one of the most peace-giving realizations of all, to me at least; that we are in God's Hand not because we hopped up there, but because He plucked us up and holds on.
I remember when this first struck me powerfully; spring of freshman year at a church retreat. I was out on a hillside after communion, and rather appropriately communing with God. And I had many subtle anxieties at the time, mostly based on the understanding that, whatever I thought about myself, my character and integrity were flawed. That, no matter how I tended to view myself, I was ultimately untrustworthy; that in the end I could not be counted on in any real way. This bothered me, because of course our human nature wants to be in charge of our actions and future…but once we see that on our own we can't be depended on, that there is some sort of spiritual law of gravity that demands we will always fall short of soaring on our own wings, we see that our future—and to a degree, even our present actions—are not under our own control. It's a pretty basic Christian truth, all about God's sovereignty as well as man's sin nature, all that stuff…but when the realization beyond the concepts sinks into someone who fancies himself able to do good, someone who values himself based upon his understanding of his own integrity, that leads to discomfort to say the least. Well anyway, my prayer to God this night at the retreat was simple: "Lord, are You pleased with me?" God, of course, heard the un-prayed question that I was too much of a coward to put into words at the time; it went something like this: "Lord, it's apparent that my integrity is incomplete; that ultimately, I fall short and can't be trusted. How, then, can I be trusted to follow You? If my character is flawed and I cannot be depended on to be faithful to You, how can I be sure I will never turn away from You? What assurance is there that my salvation is safe, if at any time I may ultimately fail?" This was beyond the doctrine of "once saved, always saved;" this was experiential and relational, which in every genuine case trumps mere doctrine. Anyway, God's response was very memorable; first, He assured me that yes, aware as He was of all my shortcomings, He was nevertheless quite pleased with me. Then, He proceeded to answer my unasked question. He said that yes, I was ultimately untrustworthy; He spoke to the awareness I had that if my salvation depended on me holding on to Him, then yes, I would be in danger. But He said that it was not the quality of my integrity that bound me to Him…it was the integrity of the Blood of Christ that formed and assured our relationship.
Anyway, that thought was revisited through the simple words, "You never let go;" for it's the same idea, that no matter our circumstances, no matter our doubts, no matter our mistakes, one thing (at the very least) we can be confident of is this; when God grabs hold, He never lets go.
A few minutes later, while I was still considering this, the sound "Hammer Holds" came on. Now, that song is amazing, and there are many directions in which my thoughts can go when I hear it. But combining the understanding that God never will let go with the metaphor within this song brought new emphasis to the picture. The picture is of God as a smith, forming a life according to His purpose…how though it might be painful to the life formed, and though the piece of work's opinion is not asked or considered, the purpose is ultimately and purely good. God holds the hammer, we are shaped by its intentional blows—not out of punishment or mean spiritedness, but for a purpose above our understanding yet just barely touching our appreciation. So the song to me places emphasis on God's purposes, obviously, but combined with the other song that said He never lets go, this becomes a very comforting thing. For God doesn't begin a work and then discard it ("He that begins a good work in you will see it to completion), but rather applies His masterful touch, with patience and without error, working the impurities out of our composition and form. It is not only (just primarily) for the sake of His plans that we are so shaped; it is also so that we can be presented as a finished work that brings satisfaction to God and also us.
These two thoughts fit well with the "My Utmost for His Highest" devotion for August 4th, which happened to be the one I read the next morning. This devotion focuses on how God chooses to trust those who don't have anything to offer, who have no value in and of themselves. In fact, it is for this very reason that God chooses them (think 2 Cor 12:10, in my weakness is Christ made strong), because those who understand that there is nothing of independent value in them are able to live for His purposes and not their own. Oswald says it better: "It is not a question of our equipment but of our poverty, not of what we bring with us, but of what God puts into us; not a question of natural virtues of strength of character, knowledge, and experience - all that is of no avail in this matter…The comradeship of God is made up out of men who know their poverty. He can do nothing with the man who thinks that he is of use to God." We think far too highly of what we can do for God, rather than submitting to what He is seeking to do through and in and around us. Since God is holding the hammer and shaping us according to His purposes, our interests (misguided as they tend to be) can get in the way. And yet, He never lets go…He crushes those obstinacies out of us. There's more in this thought than I'm touching right now, but this has already gotten too long. Anyway, this thought leads on to the next one.
As Oswald says in the same day's devotion, God's purposes won't really ever be well known to us; in spite of that, we must commit fully to our relationship with Him. It seems to me that we often fail to see that our commitment can (and in many cases, should) be greater than our knowledge. I think this is a problem in the human relationships played out in our culture. Take marriage for example: divorces happen usually because of a lack of commitment; when knowledge is the bellwether, the standard, then relationships are less than permanent. For invariably there will be things we learn about someone else that we don't like. When Knowledge overshadows Commitment, then people forget that these disliked qualities don't matter in the least. If Commitment is the standard and the focus, then whatever is learned about the other person merely colors the relationship—it cannot end it. If we cannot learn to commit fully, even when we lack "sufficient" knowledge, then we can never enter into a marriage of the sort the Bible and our wedding ceremonies speaks of—a permanent covenant, the joining of two into one that should not be struck asunder, the "till death do us part" commitment. Or take it one step back from marriage into dating; I think one of the major dangers in dating, that recent cultural invention of ours, is that it emphasizes "getting to know" one another, rather than teaching about commitment. The biblical model of preparing for marriage also includes learning…but it is an impartation from father to son, from mother to daughter, instructing the young person in what marriage means and what commitment it requires. Anything else is unnecessary fluff. Knowledge of the other person is completely unnecessary for a successful marriage; this is one reason why arranged marriages are so much more successful than American ones (and they tend to be happy marriages, to, regardless of our American incapability of comprehending that). That's not to say such knowledge is a necessarily bad thing…but when it becomes the standard and the impetus, it most certainly is.
This correction, that commitment should overshadow and even guide knowledge, is of importance in human relationships; even more, though, it's a correction we should make in our relationship with God. As Oswald notes above, even though we don't see God's reasons, we should remain absolutely committed to our relationship with Him. If Commitment is the deciding factor, then what doubts can truly assail our relationship with Him? We may have doubts as to our knowledge of Him…regardless, the commitment holds unwavering. We may wonder at His mercy, at His justice, at His purposes, at His means, at His fairness (a different concept than justice), at His ministers, even at His Word or His Love…yet in spite of those doubts that concern our knowledge of Him, if commitment is what compels us, we remain surrendered and in touch with His Spirit. Brother Lawrence, in "The Practice of the Presence of God," spoke of doubts he had for a long time as to the atonement for his own sins. He knew he was a sinner, and feared that nothing he could do could make up for them (in this, he was right, as it takes Christ to do so, which Lawrence understood on one level). So for a long time he wondered to God whether he would in fact end up in Heaven or Hell…his knowledge was assaulted by doubts. And yet, he once had this realization: that he loved God, and was committed to Him regardless of anything else. Nothing could change his commitment to his Heavenly Father, no matter whether his eternal destination was Heaven or Hell—even if he knew he would go to Hell, it would not affect his commitment to God. He would continue to love and serve Him. Once Lawrence realized this, the next step was to understand that with that kind of love and commitment, his place was with God, Who would not let him be separated from His Presence in Heaven. It was not Brother Lawrence's knowledge that assured him of a place with the Father, but his commitment.
Likewise, for us, it is not what we know of God that determines our relationship with Him; if that were the case, how many fringe (and mainstream) denominations would be in dire trouble? No, though we must believe certain things about Christ in order to enter into relationship with the Father, the faith that saves is a matter of commitment to Christ's Name, not an understanding of His Nature (for even the demons believe…and shudder). This is not to say that this commitment depends on us, that if we waver in our commitment we are in danger of damnation. For, as I've already mentioned, it is God Who holds the Hammer, and He never lets go.
Furthermore, it is not what we bring, but what He places in us, as Oswald Chambers says. We are grasped by Him, and what commitment we can muster is but a transient response to the eternal commitment a timeless God has to those who are in His Son.
I seem to have tried to force these thoughts together, and perhaps have only managed to tie them in knots; nevertheless, those ideas from such individuals as Bebo Norman and Oswald Chambers are but a small part of the tapestry of which our thoughts and lives are a part. I guess that offers a similar metaphor on a higher order to "Hammer Holds:" God holds the tread, weaving it according to His good purposes; it's not just a single life He shapes with His masterful touch, but all of Creation.
Anyway, after that ungainly introduction follows a probably equally ungainly progression of thoughts—which do not, actually, progress one from another but sit side by side, one atop another, crossing and supporting and contrasting one another. None of these thoughts are particularly rare; without thinking too carefully before I say this, I think that none of them are new thoughts for me. But perhaps they have taken a new emphasis as they are visited again, or perhaps I see them more clearly when viewed with their accompanying thoughts.
First thought; so, I was driving back to Auburn from Birmingham a couple nights ago, and I was thinking of my relationship with God. Note: thinking about your relationship with God is in itself not necessarily a good thing—it is the act of relating to, abiding, loving God that we are called to, and often merely thinking about it can take the place of relating within it. Then again, thinking about the relationship can lead to a better understanding of how we should relate…regardless of whether my thinking was a good or bad or neutral thing, I was doing it. And I was thinking mainly of growth, or the lack of it. In particular, I believe that as I listened to praise songs and remembered how I've responded to them in the past, I wondered whether I was closer or further from God than I was, say, three years ago. Now, forget the doctrinal issues of whether or not a Christian can be any closer or further from God, as he is in Christ and Christ is in him…my purpose here isn't theological. The point is my thoughts that tended towards an awareness that my only consistency seems to be a continual inconsistency; I was somewhat frustrated—this is a common theme—at how I am not satisfied with where I am spiritually, how with everything God has done for, through, to, and around me I should be so much more continually on fire for Him. And I know how this belief falls short of reality, and I know where it springs from reality. It is both untrue and it's indicative of what is true…in any case, God has shown me countless times before that regardless of where I fall short, He always measures up; He is faithful, even when I am not. And I knew this even as I lamented my faithlessness, that regardless of mistakes, shortcomings, and downright disobedience, God works through and for me consistently and successfully. But a chord was definitely struck when Matt Redman's song "You never let go" came on. Really, it's just the truth described in that title…that though our grip is transient at best, His is eternal. It was quite an encouraging reminder, even though it's something I was already aware of, which is often the case. That's really one of the most peace-giving realizations of all, to me at least; that we are in God's Hand not because we hopped up there, but because He plucked us up and holds on.
I remember when this first struck me powerfully; spring of freshman year at a church retreat. I was out on a hillside after communion, and rather appropriately communing with God. And I had many subtle anxieties at the time, mostly based on the understanding that, whatever I thought about myself, my character and integrity were flawed. That, no matter how I tended to view myself, I was ultimately untrustworthy; that in the end I could not be counted on in any real way. This bothered me, because of course our human nature wants to be in charge of our actions and future…but once we see that on our own we can't be depended on, that there is some sort of spiritual law of gravity that demands we will always fall short of soaring on our own wings, we see that our future—and to a degree, even our present actions—are not under our own control. It's a pretty basic Christian truth, all about God's sovereignty as well as man's sin nature, all that stuff…but when the realization beyond the concepts sinks into someone who fancies himself able to do good, someone who values himself based upon his understanding of his own integrity, that leads to discomfort to say the least. Well anyway, my prayer to God this night at the retreat was simple: "Lord, are You pleased with me?" God, of course, heard the un-prayed question that I was too much of a coward to put into words at the time; it went something like this: "Lord, it's apparent that my integrity is incomplete; that ultimately, I fall short and can't be trusted. How, then, can I be trusted to follow You? If my character is flawed and I cannot be depended on to be faithful to You, how can I be sure I will never turn away from You? What assurance is there that my salvation is safe, if at any time I may ultimately fail?" This was beyond the doctrine of "once saved, always saved;" this was experiential and relational, which in every genuine case trumps mere doctrine. Anyway, God's response was very memorable; first, He assured me that yes, aware as He was of all my shortcomings, He was nevertheless quite pleased with me. Then, He proceeded to answer my unasked question. He said that yes, I was ultimately untrustworthy; He spoke to the awareness I had that if my salvation depended on me holding on to Him, then yes, I would be in danger. But He said that it was not the quality of my integrity that bound me to Him…it was the integrity of the Blood of Christ that formed and assured our relationship.
Anyway, that thought was revisited through the simple words, "You never let go;" for it's the same idea, that no matter our circumstances, no matter our doubts, no matter our mistakes, one thing (at the very least) we can be confident of is this; when God grabs hold, He never lets go.
A few minutes later, while I was still considering this, the sound "Hammer Holds" came on. Now, that song is amazing, and there are many directions in which my thoughts can go when I hear it. But combining the understanding that God never will let go with the metaphor within this song brought new emphasis to the picture. The picture is of God as a smith, forming a life according to His purpose…how though it might be painful to the life formed, and though the piece of work's opinion is not asked or considered, the purpose is ultimately and purely good. God holds the hammer, we are shaped by its intentional blows—not out of punishment or mean spiritedness, but for a purpose above our understanding yet just barely touching our appreciation. So the song to me places emphasis on God's purposes, obviously, but combined with the other song that said He never lets go, this becomes a very comforting thing. For God doesn't begin a work and then discard it ("He that begins a good work in you will see it to completion), but rather applies His masterful touch, with patience and without error, working the impurities out of our composition and form. It is not only (just primarily) for the sake of His plans that we are so shaped; it is also so that we can be presented as a finished work that brings satisfaction to God and also us.
These two thoughts fit well with the "My Utmost for His Highest" devotion for August 4th, which happened to be the one I read the next morning. This devotion focuses on how God chooses to trust those who don't have anything to offer, who have no value in and of themselves. In fact, it is for this very reason that God chooses them (think 2 Cor 12:10, in my weakness is Christ made strong), because those who understand that there is nothing of independent value in them are able to live for His purposes and not their own. Oswald says it better: "It is not a question of our equipment but of our poverty, not of what we bring with us, but of what God puts into us; not a question of natural virtues of strength of character, knowledge, and experience - all that is of no avail in this matter…The comradeship of God is made up out of men who know their poverty. He can do nothing with the man who thinks that he is of use to God." We think far too highly of what we can do for God, rather than submitting to what He is seeking to do through and in and around us. Since God is holding the hammer and shaping us according to His purposes, our interests (misguided as they tend to be) can get in the way. And yet, He never lets go…He crushes those obstinacies out of us. There's more in this thought than I'm touching right now, but this has already gotten too long. Anyway, this thought leads on to the next one.
As Oswald says in the same day's devotion, God's purposes won't really ever be well known to us; in spite of that, we must commit fully to our relationship with Him. It seems to me that we often fail to see that our commitment can (and in many cases, should) be greater than our knowledge. I think this is a problem in the human relationships played out in our culture. Take marriage for example: divorces happen usually because of a lack of commitment; when knowledge is the bellwether, the standard, then relationships are less than permanent. For invariably there will be things we learn about someone else that we don't like. When Knowledge overshadows Commitment, then people forget that these disliked qualities don't matter in the least. If Commitment is the standard and the focus, then whatever is learned about the other person merely colors the relationship—it cannot end it. If we cannot learn to commit fully, even when we lack "sufficient" knowledge, then we can never enter into a marriage of the sort the Bible and our wedding ceremonies speaks of—a permanent covenant, the joining of two into one that should not be struck asunder, the "till death do us part" commitment. Or take it one step back from marriage into dating; I think one of the major dangers in dating, that recent cultural invention of ours, is that it emphasizes "getting to know" one another, rather than teaching about commitment. The biblical model of preparing for marriage also includes learning…but it is an impartation from father to son, from mother to daughter, instructing the young person in what marriage means and what commitment it requires. Anything else is unnecessary fluff. Knowledge of the other person is completely unnecessary for a successful marriage; this is one reason why arranged marriages are so much more successful than American ones (and they tend to be happy marriages, to, regardless of our American incapability of comprehending that). That's not to say such knowledge is a necessarily bad thing…but when it becomes the standard and the impetus, it most certainly is.
This correction, that commitment should overshadow and even guide knowledge, is of importance in human relationships; even more, though, it's a correction we should make in our relationship with God. As Oswald notes above, even though we don't see God's reasons, we should remain absolutely committed to our relationship with Him. If Commitment is the deciding factor, then what doubts can truly assail our relationship with Him? We may have doubts as to our knowledge of Him…regardless, the commitment holds unwavering. We may wonder at His mercy, at His justice, at His purposes, at His means, at His fairness (a different concept than justice), at His ministers, even at His Word or His Love…yet in spite of those doubts that concern our knowledge of Him, if commitment is what compels us, we remain surrendered and in touch with His Spirit. Brother Lawrence, in "The Practice of the Presence of God," spoke of doubts he had for a long time as to the atonement for his own sins. He knew he was a sinner, and feared that nothing he could do could make up for them (in this, he was right, as it takes Christ to do so, which Lawrence understood on one level). So for a long time he wondered to God whether he would in fact end up in Heaven or Hell…his knowledge was assaulted by doubts. And yet, he once had this realization: that he loved God, and was committed to Him regardless of anything else. Nothing could change his commitment to his Heavenly Father, no matter whether his eternal destination was Heaven or Hell—even if he knew he would go to Hell, it would not affect his commitment to God. He would continue to love and serve Him. Once Lawrence realized this, the next step was to understand that with that kind of love and commitment, his place was with God, Who would not let him be separated from His Presence in Heaven. It was not Brother Lawrence's knowledge that assured him of a place with the Father, but his commitment.
Likewise, for us, it is not what we know of God that determines our relationship with Him; if that were the case, how many fringe (and mainstream) denominations would be in dire trouble? No, though we must believe certain things about Christ in order to enter into relationship with the Father, the faith that saves is a matter of commitment to Christ's Name, not an understanding of His Nature (for even the demons believe…and shudder). This is not to say that this commitment depends on us, that if we waver in our commitment we are in danger of damnation. For, as I've already mentioned, it is God Who holds the Hammer, and He never lets go.
Furthermore, it is not what we bring, but what He places in us, as Oswald Chambers says. We are grasped by Him, and what commitment we can muster is but a transient response to the eternal commitment a timeless God has to those who are in His Son.
I seem to have tried to force these thoughts together, and perhaps have only managed to tie them in knots; nevertheless, those ideas from such individuals as Bebo Norman and Oswald Chambers are but a small part of the tapestry of which our thoughts and lives are a part. I guess that offers a similar metaphor on a higher order to "Hammer Holds:" God holds the tread, weaving it according to His good purposes; it's not just a single life He shapes with His masterful touch, but all of Creation.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Effort and Ease
"Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." (Matthew 11:29-30)
"From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven has been forcefully advancing, and forceful men lay hold of it." (Matthew 11:12)
There's this great paradox in following Jesus: this interplay between helpless surrender and iron-hard devotion, between brokenness and determination, between rest for the soul and enduring hardship "like a good soldier of Jesus." Between the idea in Matthew 11:30—that of rest for the soul—and that in 2 Corinthians 4:8-10: "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body"—that we will be pressed to the very cusp of being crushed, though no further…even as we "rejoice always."
I think one part of this paradox—between the genuine difficulty of living the Christian life and the complete simplicity of abandonment to God—is of course resolved by Paul, when he mentions that our efforts are to proceed in the understanding that it is the Spirit of God working in us to sanctify us. What we are called to do as believers is impossible on our own, but is already being achieved through God in us; "those who are led by the Spirit of God are the sons of God." God's Spirit in us achieves what all our effort cannot—a life of righteous obedience. And this is not, of course, an external thing; our righteousness does not come from our actions or character, but the character of Christ living within us, Who has already done the eternal part. And yet our effort remains, and must remain. We do not grow lax in the Christian journey, although the destination is assured. We respond in dying daily to ourselves, in intentionally fixing our eyes on the Father, in scraping away the parasite of sin still clinging to the new man within. And it's this effort that I'm considering; this reality that it is hard to live the Christian life and even with the overabundance of blessings and direction the Lord has given me, I still wander. It's in the old hymn: "Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love."
Why is that? Why is such determination and commitment—and wisdom—needed to live according to the calling on a Christian's life…when God is the one growing us into His children? What is the real nature of this struggle; why is it so hard, in Oswald Chambers words, to come to a "moral decision about sin;" why do we not cull sin out of our life with all the revulsion we should have towards it? Why do we get distracted from this fundamental struggle?
And lastly, from the perspective of a Christian man, why is the growth towards true masculinity so difficult to fully enter into—why do distractions draw attention away from the central fight, making what effort we can muster often misdirected and unproductive? From my own perspective, two major enemies are a misunderstanding of what is required of us, and a hesitance to see spiritual warfare as what it is. Really, these two mistakes are tightly connected; maybe even the same thing.
As far as what is required of us…we focus way too much on the external, and not enough on the will. It's important to note here than emotions are not the will; Oswald Chambers when speaking of committing to Christ says, "It is a transaction of will, not of emotion." We confuse emotion and will too often, as well as passion and emotion; all are separate things, although passion is most closely relation to will. We show or see emotion expressed, and take it as evidence of a movement of will…but all too often (perhaps especially in our somewhat epicurean society) that emotion waxes and wanes without any true movement of will. And so in a sense emotion can be classified under "external"…it's something external at least to the will and to the core of what matters about us. As far as the external generally goes, it can blind us to the real opportunity for surrender and growth. Again, something from Oswald Chambers: "The real deep crisis of abandonment is reached internally, not externally. The giving up of external things may be an indication of being in total bondage."
And this ties into what I meant about a hesitancy to see spiritual warfare for what it is. I know for my part, I expect spiritual warfare to be expressed in the external—I think of extremes like casting out demons and physical healing, or in subtler ways like refraining from obvious sin and standing for the truth against persecution. As a man—someone hardwired to fight, to strive, to contend—I want spiritual warfare to be obvious and large-scale, some momentous commitment I must stick to, against an enemy that is tangible and visible (at least to my emotions). I think of Christian martyrs and defenders (historical and fictional) of the faith and goodness, and acknowledge the desire to be counted among them; I think if I could face a spiritual/moral struggle like that, I would be able to choose sacrifice and righteousness over compromise.
But it's much harder to see a creeping bitterness or resentment towards someone as every bit as much spiritual warfare as contending knowingly against a spirit of darkness. Or the subtle but absolute choice between entertaining temptation—even when surrendering is out of the question—and refusing outright to let temptation enter your heart. For behind every temptation is an assault by spiritual darkness; even unseen choices for good are victories. Prayer is the true domain of spiritual warfare. That is our struggle…to seek Christ in prayer, rather than allowing worldly thoughts to dominate. It's a humble endeavor, one that take place when no one in watching, when even you can't see the tangible benefit. It's about more than the common hours training you for the great struggles; in a very real way, the common hours are the great struggle.
And so the effort needed is a quiet effort, though fierce and complete. It's the effort of complete obedience in the small things, for of such things is life made. It's a matter of the will, and requires a steady will at that. Our rest is found on the other side of surrendering our will—our right to our self—to Christ. And that's the difficult thing…I for one am ready for the great struggles, but not the common hours of continual and willful obedience; and so it is only through Christ that this can be realized.
"From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven has been forcefully advancing, and forceful men lay hold of it." (Matthew 11:12)
There's this great paradox in following Jesus: this interplay between helpless surrender and iron-hard devotion, between brokenness and determination, between rest for the soul and enduring hardship "like a good soldier of Jesus." Between the idea in Matthew 11:30—that of rest for the soul—and that in 2 Corinthians 4:8-10: "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body"—that we will be pressed to the very cusp of being crushed, though no further…even as we "rejoice always."
I think one part of this paradox—between the genuine difficulty of living the Christian life and the complete simplicity of abandonment to God—is of course resolved by Paul, when he mentions that our efforts are to proceed in the understanding that it is the Spirit of God working in us to sanctify us. What we are called to do as believers is impossible on our own, but is already being achieved through God in us; "those who are led by the Spirit of God are the sons of God." God's Spirit in us achieves what all our effort cannot—a life of righteous obedience. And this is not, of course, an external thing; our righteousness does not come from our actions or character, but the character of Christ living within us, Who has already done the eternal part. And yet our effort remains, and must remain. We do not grow lax in the Christian journey, although the destination is assured. We respond in dying daily to ourselves, in intentionally fixing our eyes on the Father, in scraping away the parasite of sin still clinging to the new man within. And it's this effort that I'm considering; this reality that it is hard to live the Christian life and even with the overabundance of blessings and direction the Lord has given me, I still wander. It's in the old hymn: "Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love."
Why is that? Why is such determination and commitment—and wisdom—needed to live according to the calling on a Christian's life…when God is the one growing us into His children? What is the real nature of this struggle; why is it so hard, in Oswald Chambers words, to come to a "moral decision about sin;" why do we not cull sin out of our life with all the revulsion we should have towards it? Why do we get distracted from this fundamental struggle?
And lastly, from the perspective of a Christian man, why is the growth towards true masculinity so difficult to fully enter into—why do distractions draw attention away from the central fight, making what effort we can muster often misdirected and unproductive? From my own perspective, two major enemies are a misunderstanding of what is required of us, and a hesitance to see spiritual warfare as what it is. Really, these two mistakes are tightly connected; maybe even the same thing.
As far as what is required of us…we focus way too much on the external, and not enough on the will. It's important to note here than emotions are not the will; Oswald Chambers when speaking of committing to Christ says, "It is a transaction of will, not of emotion." We confuse emotion and will too often, as well as passion and emotion; all are separate things, although passion is most closely relation to will. We show or see emotion expressed, and take it as evidence of a movement of will…but all too often (perhaps especially in our somewhat epicurean society) that emotion waxes and wanes without any true movement of will. And so in a sense emotion can be classified under "external"…it's something external at least to the will and to the core of what matters about us. As far as the external generally goes, it can blind us to the real opportunity for surrender and growth. Again, something from Oswald Chambers: "The real deep crisis of abandonment is reached internally, not externally. The giving up of external things may be an indication of being in total bondage."
And this ties into what I meant about a hesitancy to see spiritual warfare for what it is. I know for my part, I expect spiritual warfare to be expressed in the external—I think of extremes like casting out demons and physical healing, or in subtler ways like refraining from obvious sin and standing for the truth against persecution. As a man—someone hardwired to fight, to strive, to contend—I want spiritual warfare to be obvious and large-scale, some momentous commitment I must stick to, against an enemy that is tangible and visible (at least to my emotions). I think of Christian martyrs and defenders (historical and fictional) of the faith and goodness, and acknowledge the desire to be counted among them; I think if I could face a spiritual/moral struggle like that, I would be able to choose sacrifice and righteousness over compromise.
But it's much harder to see a creeping bitterness or resentment towards someone as every bit as much spiritual warfare as contending knowingly against a spirit of darkness. Or the subtle but absolute choice between entertaining temptation—even when surrendering is out of the question—and refusing outright to let temptation enter your heart. For behind every temptation is an assault by spiritual darkness; even unseen choices for good are victories. Prayer is the true domain of spiritual warfare. That is our struggle…to seek Christ in prayer, rather than allowing worldly thoughts to dominate. It's a humble endeavor, one that take place when no one in watching, when even you can't see the tangible benefit. It's about more than the common hours training you for the great struggles; in a very real way, the common hours are the great struggle.
And so the effort needed is a quiet effort, though fierce and complete. It's the effort of complete obedience in the small things, for of such things is life made. It's a matter of the will, and requires a steady will at that. Our rest is found on the other side of surrendering our will—our right to our self—to Christ. And that's the difficult thing…I for one am ready for the great struggles, but not the common hours of continual and willful obedience; and so it is only through Christ that this can be realized.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Stars
In one of his songs, Jack Johnson sings "there were so many fewer questions when stars were still just the holes to heaven." It's a nice line, in a pretty good song, and has a cool, difficult-to-nail-down-exactly meaning, somewhere along the lines of how modernity blots out some of the value that simplicity used to offer. That idea can take my mind in a good many directions, but right now I'm thinking about the meaning of stars. What, after all, are stars to us? The "modern" answer would be that they are interstellar orbs of flaming gases, billions upon billions of them, huge and rather hostile to life in their immediate qualities, although absolutely necessary to life once removed some odd light seconds away. Sure, people will still talk about how much they like a starry night sky for its own sake, or how they may wish upon a shooting star, or several other more sentimental approaches to the night lights. Still, I'm afraid that if you ask someone to really get down to what a star is, most will shoot right to the burning ball of gas definition, and leave it at that.
Is there a problem in that? Several problems, I think, that give insight into our cultural perceptions. But I'm going to go in a specific direction—or at least, I plan to; as some of my friends know, I have something of a tendency to ramble off subject.
There's a meaning in stars far deeper than their physical/chemical properties. I'm reminded of Eustace's conversation with Ramandu in C. S. Lewis's "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader." It's a short passage that had immediate and lasting appeal for me, for in it, Ramandu—an apparent person—is revealed to be a retired star. The boy Eustace remarks, "In our world a star is a huge ball of flaming gas." Ramandu's response cuts right to the point—"Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is, but only what it is made of." It's a good reminder that we mere men are something more than a result of the G A T C of the genetic code, more than amino acids and carbon chains. Something much more; it's hard to remember how much weightier the spiritual is than the material for those of us living in a mostly physical world, but it's true. Material can never give rise to meaning, just as statements of mere fact can never give rise to statements of value. And if the meaning of a man has little or nothing to do with what he is made of, then why not believe that the meaning of a star has little or nothing to do with what it is made of? I certainly believe it to be so.
Ramandu's place in The Chronicles of Narnia blends oh so well with the role of three characters in another once-and-ever loved book, Madeline L'Engle's "A Wrinkle in Time." And here will come a bit of a spoiler; the three old ladies who guide the Murrays and Calvin O'Keefe are actually stars. Not active stars, of course; the children discover that they sacrificed their star-ness to fight the dark evil ever striving against the Light. It's a lovely part of a lovely story, but rather than trying to reproduce the feeling L'Engle creates, I'll leave it at that; the anthropomorphized stars are now dancing in the heavens no longer, yet still work for Heaven's cause. Do stars really accomplish any moral good? Well, they certainly can give hope; I remember walking through the Highlands of Scotland one night, frustrated with myself. All it took to correct my attitude was the clouds clearing to reveal the pinpricked night's sky, peaceful and constant as always. Of course, perhaps the stars accomplished nothing themselves; they were only an example of God's glorious Creation, a beauty that hints at the beauty of its Creator.
And yet maybe there's some truth in this; every reflection of God's Light, every hint of His peace and constancy, every reminder of His benevolent sovereignty, carries with it a meaning intricately wrapped up in the thing's essence—a meaning that we, who want to touch and take apart something before we grant it importance, miss. Something transcendent. The Psalmist says, "Deep calls to Deep in the roar of Your waterfalls." Now, I don't know quite what that means. But I take it to mean that there is more to waterfalls than falling molecules of H2O. That the meaning of a waterfall is far more than what it is made of. Maybe there's a deficiency in our language: even the words we use suggest a straightforward interpretation of the material world that is clear and simple to grasp. Take the first chapter of the Gospel of John, for example. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God"…right? Word, Logos in the Greek, means something fairly concrete (at first glance). But Logos itself means something more. It means Reason, Logic, Meaning…it carries the understanding of the essence that makes a thing what it is. A bit less concrete, I'd say. Jesus the Word is not about syllables, but about the nature of meaning. God created through speaking: speaking Truth, I believe, not just syllables. He spoke meaning, and it came to pass…and I think Creation carries a meaning that we often ignore.
Back to stars: cultures have long placed an importance on stars. The constellations of the Greeks are famous; the constellations of other cultures much less so. Did they make stories about the stars, anthropomorphizing them somewhat, because they didn't understand them as well as us? Or because, in some way, they understood them better? It should be remembered that they understood the position of lights in the heavens quite well, and had the math to go along with their understanding—Mayans, Egyptians, and Greeks alike. Their understanding was not primitive, and they understood how vast the heavens were. The mathematician and astronomer Ptolemy wrote around 150 A.D., "The earth, in relation to the distance of the fixed stars, has no appreciable size and must be treated as a mathematical point." Yet we ignore the fact that they had a good grasp on astronomy because the ancients also affirmed that the earth is at the center of the cosmos, a belief that is largely discredited today. However, although we tend to discredit the geocentric view academically, in practical terms we too affirm it. I remember reading recently that some astronomers hoped to observe a large asteroid striking Mars. Would they be so eager if it were to strike earth? Don't they value the cosmic effect of things on the Earth far more than they do effect on other heavenly bodies? Isn't the Earth central in their cosmos, the reference point for all other things? Where would astronomy be if the Earth had never existed? Ptolemy taught it better—and more honestly—than our modern schools, at least in the ways that matter. The meaning, not the physical substance or position, of things is the heavier truth.
This is not to say that position doesn't matter. The position of stars has guided sailors for millennia. But there is a meaning in the position, as well, and the Bible confirms this. The absolute best example of this is the story of the Wise Men coming to visit the newborn King Jesus. The Magi came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw His star in the east and have come to worship Him." That is a bit unfathomable to our modern ears; astrology foretold the birth of the Son of God. There's a lot here that I'm curious about; but I think the important part is that the study of the stars did pay off in giving true insight into a central event of history. This is astrology, true, and astrology definitely has a bad name in modern Christian circles (perhaps a deservedly bad name, although it should be remembered that astronomy and astrology were synonymous until the Renaissance, or later. And who suggests that astronomy is forbidden?) It was, after all, outlawed in the Old Testament. But of course, so was eating pork, and so was wearing clothes made of more than one material. Yes, it was put into the same category as sorcery, which, I take it, is bad company. However, it's interesting to note that when the apostles called out Simon the Sorcerer, it wasn't for his sorcery; it was for his simony. This is not to say that sorcery is allowed; I, for one, believe it's not. Nevertheless, astrology is not in itself evil…The Wise Men practiced it properly, and brought the Christ three very specific gifts in which God's purposes in Christ were foretold. What was evil about astrology was, perhaps, the same thing that's evil about philosophy, science, nature: the worshiping and idolizing of it. God had fault with a man when he "contrary to My command has worshiped other gods, bowing down to them or to the sun or the moon or the stars of the sky." He certainly didn't fault the Magi for their astrology. This isn't the astrology of horoscopes…this is the astrology hinted at in the Chronicle of Narnia (yes, the Chronicles again!) when, in "Prince Caspian," the boy prince is led by his tutor to a tower in order to observe a momentous sign in the heavens—and elsewhere, where it mentions Centaurs who study the signs in the heavens.
C. S. Lewis had his stars be both anthropomorphic and celestial informants. Matthew 2 shows that the stars are, in fact, informants to those "in the know." Poets, sailors, lovers have thanked the stars for ages. Stars fight, and stars sing: "From the heavens the stars fought, from their courses they fought against Sisera" (Judges 5:20); "while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy" (Job 38:7). Our modern focus is a bit too telescopic, about stars and so much else. Stepping back and realizing there is meaning in Creation, that the spiritual is weightier than the material, helps us see that the world is far richer than we give it credit for. Focus in on one star, learn all you can about solely it, perceive it with a precision that ignores all else, and what do you have? A fuming ball of chaos, burning and writhing in its throes in the loneliness of space. But...see the whole picture, the heavenly canvas of stars spread across the sky, and you see a divine dance and hear a silver song; individual orbs of fire become a sublime and living testament to their Creator.
Is there a problem in that? Several problems, I think, that give insight into our cultural perceptions. But I'm going to go in a specific direction—or at least, I plan to; as some of my friends know, I have something of a tendency to ramble off subject.
There's a meaning in stars far deeper than their physical/chemical properties. I'm reminded of Eustace's conversation with Ramandu in C. S. Lewis's "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader." It's a short passage that had immediate and lasting appeal for me, for in it, Ramandu—an apparent person—is revealed to be a retired star. The boy Eustace remarks, "In our world a star is a huge ball of flaming gas." Ramandu's response cuts right to the point—"Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is, but only what it is made of." It's a good reminder that we mere men are something more than a result of the G A T C of the genetic code, more than amino acids and carbon chains. Something much more; it's hard to remember how much weightier the spiritual is than the material for those of us living in a mostly physical world, but it's true. Material can never give rise to meaning, just as statements of mere fact can never give rise to statements of value. And if the meaning of a man has little or nothing to do with what he is made of, then why not believe that the meaning of a star has little or nothing to do with what it is made of? I certainly believe it to be so.
Ramandu's place in The Chronicles of Narnia blends oh so well with the role of three characters in another once-and-ever loved book, Madeline L'Engle's "A Wrinkle in Time." And here will come a bit of a spoiler; the three old ladies who guide the Murrays and Calvin O'Keefe are actually stars. Not active stars, of course; the children discover that they sacrificed their star-ness to fight the dark evil ever striving against the Light. It's a lovely part of a lovely story, but rather than trying to reproduce the feeling L'Engle creates, I'll leave it at that; the anthropomorphized stars are now dancing in the heavens no longer, yet still work for Heaven's cause. Do stars really accomplish any moral good? Well, they certainly can give hope; I remember walking through the Highlands of Scotland one night, frustrated with myself. All it took to correct my attitude was the clouds clearing to reveal the pinpricked night's sky, peaceful and constant as always. Of course, perhaps the stars accomplished nothing themselves; they were only an example of God's glorious Creation, a beauty that hints at the beauty of its Creator.
And yet maybe there's some truth in this; every reflection of God's Light, every hint of His peace and constancy, every reminder of His benevolent sovereignty, carries with it a meaning intricately wrapped up in the thing's essence—a meaning that we, who want to touch and take apart something before we grant it importance, miss. Something transcendent. The Psalmist says, "Deep calls to Deep in the roar of Your waterfalls." Now, I don't know quite what that means. But I take it to mean that there is more to waterfalls than falling molecules of H2O. That the meaning of a waterfall is far more than what it is made of. Maybe there's a deficiency in our language: even the words we use suggest a straightforward interpretation of the material world that is clear and simple to grasp. Take the first chapter of the Gospel of John, for example. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God"…right? Word, Logos in the Greek, means something fairly concrete (at first glance). But Logos itself means something more. It means Reason, Logic, Meaning…it carries the understanding of the essence that makes a thing what it is. A bit less concrete, I'd say. Jesus the Word is not about syllables, but about the nature of meaning. God created through speaking: speaking Truth, I believe, not just syllables. He spoke meaning, and it came to pass…and I think Creation carries a meaning that we often ignore.
Back to stars: cultures have long placed an importance on stars. The constellations of the Greeks are famous; the constellations of other cultures much less so. Did they make stories about the stars, anthropomorphizing them somewhat, because they didn't understand them as well as us? Or because, in some way, they understood them better? It should be remembered that they understood the position of lights in the heavens quite well, and had the math to go along with their understanding—Mayans, Egyptians, and Greeks alike. Their understanding was not primitive, and they understood how vast the heavens were. The mathematician and astronomer Ptolemy wrote around 150 A.D., "The earth, in relation to the distance of the fixed stars, has no appreciable size and must be treated as a mathematical point." Yet we ignore the fact that they had a good grasp on astronomy because the ancients also affirmed that the earth is at the center of the cosmos, a belief that is largely discredited today. However, although we tend to discredit the geocentric view academically, in practical terms we too affirm it. I remember reading recently that some astronomers hoped to observe a large asteroid striking Mars. Would they be so eager if it were to strike earth? Don't they value the cosmic effect of things on the Earth far more than they do effect on other heavenly bodies? Isn't the Earth central in their cosmos, the reference point for all other things? Where would astronomy be if the Earth had never existed? Ptolemy taught it better—and more honestly—than our modern schools, at least in the ways that matter. The meaning, not the physical substance or position, of things is the heavier truth.
This is not to say that position doesn't matter. The position of stars has guided sailors for millennia. But there is a meaning in the position, as well, and the Bible confirms this. The absolute best example of this is the story of the Wise Men coming to visit the newborn King Jesus. The Magi came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw His star in the east and have come to worship Him." That is a bit unfathomable to our modern ears; astrology foretold the birth of the Son of God. There's a lot here that I'm curious about; but I think the important part is that the study of the stars did pay off in giving true insight into a central event of history. This is astrology, true, and astrology definitely has a bad name in modern Christian circles (perhaps a deservedly bad name, although it should be remembered that astronomy and astrology were synonymous until the Renaissance, or later. And who suggests that astronomy is forbidden?) It was, after all, outlawed in the Old Testament. But of course, so was eating pork, and so was wearing clothes made of more than one material. Yes, it was put into the same category as sorcery, which, I take it, is bad company. However, it's interesting to note that when the apostles called out Simon the Sorcerer, it wasn't for his sorcery; it was for his simony. This is not to say that sorcery is allowed; I, for one, believe it's not. Nevertheless, astrology is not in itself evil…The Wise Men practiced it properly, and brought the Christ three very specific gifts in which God's purposes in Christ were foretold. What was evil about astrology was, perhaps, the same thing that's evil about philosophy, science, nature: the worshiping and idolizing of it. God had fault with a man when he "contrary to My command has worshiped other gods, bowing down to them or to the sun or the moon or the stars of the sky." He certainly didn't fault the Magi for their astrology. This isn't the astrology of horoscopes…this is the astrology hinted at in the Chronicle of Narnia (yes, the Chronicles again!) when, in "Prince Caspian," the boy prince is led by his tutor to a tower in order to observe a momentous sign in the heavens—and elsewhere, where it mentions Centaurs who study the signs in the heavens.
C. S. Lewis had his stars be both anthropomorphic and celestial informants. Matthew 2 shows that the stars are, in fact, informants to those "in the know." Poets, sailors, lovers have thanked the stars for ages. Stars fight, and stars sing: "From the heavens the stars fought, from their courses they fought against Sisera" (Judges 5:20); "while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy" (Job 38:7). Our modern focus is a bit too telescopic, about stars and so much else. Stepping back and realizing there is meaning in Creation, that the spiritual is weightier than the material, helps us see that the world is far richer than we give it credit for. Focus in on one star, learn all you can about solely it, perceive it with a precision that ignores all else, and what do you have? A fuming ball of chaos, burning and writhing in its throes in the loneliness of space. But...see the whole picture, the heavenly canvas of stars spread across the sky, and you see a divine dance and hear a silver song; individual orbs of fire become a sublime and living testament to their Creator.
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