(Note: this was actually written long ago; the November dating is something of a compromise between when it was actually written and when it was actually posted. Not that this detail matters at all.)
Last night I attended a talk at a local church given by a professor of systematic theology at Oxford. I enjoyed it very much, in part because I’ll be heading off to Oxford myself in a couple weeks, and such ideas as he presented in his talk helped motivate my desire to study at Oxford…the rational and narrative presentation of heady ideas is a great appeal to me in my intellectual journey. I agreed with much of what he said, especially his emphasis on narrative as a means to understand and present theology, as well as his reasoned response to postmodernism. However, in keeping with my often contrary mind, I’ve been pondering those ideas we disagree about far more than those we share.
Admittedly, he is a far more educated man than I am, wiser, more familiar with the Scriptures, etc., so by differing with his opinion I stand in great danger of being wrong. However, being wrong does not worry me, since I’ve had plenty of wrong beliefs before and found that articulating wrong ideas is often the first step towards reaching right ideas. Also, my disagreement with this fellow is in part drawn from a Christian writer who, I think, would likewise disagree with the speaker…and so I take some small comfort in not standing alone in my uneasiness with the view the professor expressed. In fact, I find it very likely that, if I had not recently read this other Christian writer, my ears would not have perked up at the troublesome claims I heard.
I spoke with the lecturer after his talk, and found much in his way of thinking that appeals, much in his career that I admire. However, what sparked my disagreement was not a misunderstanding; after speaking with him at length, I confirmed that we do have quite different views on God and the Gospel. Nothing drastic, perhaps, nor something truly troubling…merely an ideological contrast. I respect this man greatly, and I know he has done much more for the kingdom than I have at this point. And so, if through disagreeing with him I come across as disparaging him in any way, it’s merely a flaw in my argumentative style.
Two main points struck me as faulty. The first and main issue was his emphasis on God as a God of Peace, to the exclusion of God’s warlike qualities; wrapped up in this is the fellow’s belief that the idea of redemptive violence is a faulty myth, and un-Christian at that. Connected in some way to this view is his opinion that we need not worry too hard about persuading people to the right way of thinking, or really struggle against conflicting worldviews…all we need concern ourselves with is telling our Story accurately, and it in turn will take care of “out-telling” all other stories. In addition to these two well-communicated ideas of his, I found fault with something that didn’t surface until I spoke with him at length afterwards: a shrugging away of the violence of God in the Old Testament, a dismissal of the Jewish understanding of God’s involvement in their victories…in short, he seemed to believe that when the writers of the Old Testament expressed views of God that were in conflict with his own view of a God only of peace, these writers were hindered by primitive views and inaccurate beliefs.
I’m going to address the second point—the idea of the Christian Story out-telling others—first, because it is, in my opinion, less dangerous as well as closer to the truth. For our Story is the most compelling one, not only because it is the True Story, but also because of the Grace and goodness and love contained in it. And yet, this speaker ignored one crucial element, one truth that explains why—even when we tell the Christian Story well—it often does not seem to “out-tell” other stories. And that is the reality of sin: though the Story is true, there is also present “the wickedness of men who suppress the truth by their wickedness.” If the best Story always convinced, always “out-told” the others, then evangelism would be wonderfully easy: the whole world would have long since been won over.
Yet it is true that we do not “persuade with wise words” or manipulate people into belief in Christ. No matter our eloquence or stuttering, it is only the Holy Spirit Who can convict and save. Yet if we proceed forth in this childish belief that all we need to do is tell our story compellingly, then we will leave in our wake a host of confused, resistant souls. We are called to tell the Story well—both the Great Epic of the Gospel and our own experience of that Story—yet if we do not see that in doing so we take part in a great and real struggle, a war of ideologies and powers, a contest for not only the understanding of our listeners but also their very, shadowed wills, we will not reflect the Light where it can heal.
After listening to this thought of his, a classic parable came to mind. In Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave,” the soul rescued from the world of darkness, captivity, and shadowed sight is freed into the world of Light and Truth. When he returns to his fellows, still chained in the Cave and debating the shadowy projections that are their whole world, these men disbelieve the true experience of their once-comrade. Moreover, they notice that he can no longer argue about the shadows as well as they can—for he, knowing the realities projected onto the wall of the Cave, and having eyes now better attuned to light than darkness, lives in a different world than they.
And so it is with us: we cannot convince the world against their will simply by telling them about the Outside and about the Light. They think us mad. In truth, we cannot convince them at all—it is not a matter of a Story out-telling others; it is a matter of being freed. For even that fortunate soul who was brought out of the Cave was brought out…he didn’t perceive the truth and break his chains because he glimpsed the truth. In fact—and this is important—even after freed, after he was brought into the light, he still didn’t see the Outside (the Story, in our terms) for what it was. Inside the Cave (as a slave to Sin), one cannot hear the Story for what it is—it is only after one is called Outside that one begins to understand. The metaphor of “a Story out-telling all others” is nice, but it ignores the present reality of Sin…for sin, twisted and twisting as it is, does not know what is best—that is, in a way, what sin at its core is.
That, in a way, brings me to my main objection to the lecture. The denial of God’s involvement in the war…for the “Story,” the “Great Epic,” is a tale of war. This speaker would agree with me as far as this goes, but he would then present the Adversary as the only one who uses force in this war. This instead of seeing that the struggle is between the One who has a monopoly on the use of righteous force and his Adversary who fights against Someone bigger, stronger, more powerful, with a force to which he has no right. God achieves all He achieves through Peace, not through conflict—the sword Christ came to bring, the Sword of the Word, and Christ’s double-edged sword at the Second Coming are not weapons at all (this I heard from him after the lecture); apparently “sharp double-edged sword” is ambiguous.
Let me back up for a moment and provide some context. The speaker used a review of the movie “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” in his lecture; the review was by an atheist who recognized the strong Christian imagery of Aslan…and hated it. The reviewer (if I’m remembering closely enough) lamented the presentation of a powerful force of absolute Good, a Force to which the other characters could appeal, Someone who would win on their behalf when they were outmatched. In the end, the speaker stated that the reviewer’s understanding of Aslan was flawed, for He wasn’t primarily an irresistible force of reckoning and righting, but rather a Being of peace Who laid down in unresisting sacrifice for the other characters.
It’s a persuasive interpretation. After all, Aslan (and Jesus) did lay down his life for one who betrayed him, one who was wholly unworthy, and did choose not to resist. That is certainly a part of the story…but it is not the whole story. In fact, it misrepresents the Story. Aslan, before and after the Stone Table, was a warlike Lion. This is a constant throughout the Chronicles, a Lion who is loving, comforting, and playful with those in relationship with Him, and yet unmistakably, irrefutably, painstakingly-obviously, fearsome and violent to His enemies. It’s the same for Jesus (who really thinks Lewis would mess up such a vital part of the Story?); we well know the imagery of Jesus’ Second Coming, and we shouldn’t forget that even in His First Coming, He came not to bring peace but the sword. Also, of course, we can look to His clearing of the temple, as well as His irresistible confrontation with however many demons He cast out; they fled not because He was peaceful and good, but because of the power He could bring to bear. When Jesus died on the Cross He certainly did lay down His life…but it was, in Grand Strategy terms, a decisive victory. To only focus on Christ’s refusal to resist is to ignore the greater reality of what was going on…disciplined obedience to a heroically aggressive plan.
The speaker presented redemptive violence as a myth…instead, he said, what occurred was redemptive sacrifice. I would offer that both are real, both took place on the Cross. The speaker maintained that redemptive violence (or violence of any sort) was a doctrine of other religions, but not true Christianity. That the sacrificial Lamb is a better image of God than the roaring Lion; that, when the Lion imagery holds, it implies a God who is proactive and clever (but oh, not violent) in His peacefulness…in short, instead of a Lion we have a Lamb in Lion’s clothing.
Jesus’ peaceful attitude was not the absence of violence, it was the perfect restraint of a perfect violence…that violence of God that is an indivisible part of His great Glory and Holiness—for Holiness burns irresistibly, forcing even the Seraphim to cover their eyes in His Presence. That was the speaker’s great mistake—shying away from righteous aggression and the proper use of force. I honestly cannot understand (even after speaking with him at length) how he explains away the very real use of righteous force that God displays throughout His Word…although I suspect that it has much to do with a wish for it to be otherwise.
For we are well familiar with the abuse of force and evil violence. Indeed, violence carries the connotation of evil in our everyday language. Looking at God’s commands to put whole cities to the sword and flame, and David’s call for swift, decisive judgment upon his (and God’s) enemies, we find a violence we are uncomfortable with. We seek some way out of it—we refuse to see that God can be both absolutely Good and capable of destruction. But with the existence of evil, He can be no other way—a good, just, holy God must destroy what is evil. God creates, and He destroys what mars that Creation; He gives, and He takes away. Thankfully, our God displays unparalleled patience in His judgment.
Of course, if there were no sin, God would (I believe) have no cause to display violence. This may—and I’m saying this tentatively, for I feel I’m touching upon mysteries unknowable to me—be why God allows sin. It is one of the more troubling theological questions. How can a good God permit evil? All He does is for His Glory…how does allowing sin glorify God? Again, these are not ideas I’d care to defend, for I simply do not know. But, the explanation that makes most sense to me is that sin allows for God to display His characteristics as a Warrior (think Exodus 15:3, “The LORD is a Warrior, the LORD is His Name”) and as an Ever-Victorious Conqueror. The speaker’s image of God—a God of quiet peace, not in truth a warrior at all, does not stand up well to the presence of sin; for a God who did not ever want a struggle yet is faced with one nonetheless is a bit problematic. Although, perhaps (most assuredly, rather) much more is going on in all this than we can see.
However, what we can see is what is written throughout the Word of God; conflict between good and evil. When only evil is using violence, we get the sense of a God postponing His judgment, not a God incapable of responding in like kind. Indeed, when God uses violence, it completely overwhelms the violence of the Adversary. This is seen most clearly in the Old Testament (and Revelation, although I won’t make an argument from symbolic prophecy at the moment), although it is not hidden in the New Testament either. However, the speaker quickly dismissed the Israelite view of God wherein God “hands over their enemies into their hands” and grants them victories. I think this is a very irresponsible thing to do—it is explaining away a very common role of God in the Scriptures.
Explaining away the forceful conflict in the Old Testament is to be guilty of what Lewis calls “chronological snobbery;” surely, more of God has been revealed through the New Testament, but what was revealed of Him in the Old still holds true. Deuteronomy 20:4 is clear: “For the LORD your God is the one who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies to give you victory”—to muddle it beyond recognition is to invite a free-form interpretation of the Scriptures whereby a man’s preference becomes truth. Psalm 44:2-3 is equally unambiguous: “With Your hand You drove out the nations…It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was your right hand, your arm, and the light of your face, for you loved them.”
Why did God cull Gideon’s force down to so small an army? The motivation was to show that it was the LORD, not the swords of Israel, that assured them of victory…the LORD fought their battles. David was a man after God’s own heart—and a warrior as well as a worshipper; indeed, it can be said David worshiped through his warlike attributes, at least at times. This, incidentally, may reveal a small part of why the imprecatory Psalms are part of God’s Word: righteous conflict glorifies Him, as the man after His own heart well knew. Again, muddling these parts of the Story, these emphases of the LORD as a warrior on His people’s behalf, into something merely revealing the particular explanation of the people of Israel for their own violent acts, is setting one’s self above the authors of Scripture themselves.
Moreover, God’s fighting spirit is not found in the Old Testament alone. In addition to Jesus clearing out the Temple with a whip, there are a few spots that indicate we, too, are called to take active part in the war. Matthew 11:12 says “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.” A similar sentiment is found in Luke 16:16 “"The Law and the Prophets were until John; since then the good news of the kingdom of God is preached, and everyone forces his way into it.” We are called to the appropriate use of force—the watered down, liberal, modern view of the Christian as a milksop has little relevance to our roles as sons and daughters of the King. We look back through history and see Christians misusing force—the Crusades come to mind, as does the Inquisition, although other moments stand out as well—and we shy away from appropriate aggression, righteous strength, our role as warriors. And we wonder why Islam is advancing around the world, and why Christian values are being so overwhelmed at home. We refuse to stand in the gap—and not always out of cowardice, but often simply because we have been taught that all resistance is bad. We do not put on our Armor; or, if we do, we do not take up our Sword; or, if we do, we cower nonetheless, ashamed of our power or unaware that we are to charge into battle alongside the other saints.
God is the Lion AND the Lamb; not a Lamb alone, nor a Lamb in Lion’s clothing. Such a seeming dichotomy may be difficult for our human minds to grasp…But the Divine (and Spiritual reality as a whole) is full of apparent paradox to human eyes; God is Just and Merciful, He possesses self-sufficiency that is yet eager for relationship, He is Three Persons yet One Being, Christ became fully man while remaining fully God. Christ is Prince of Peace yet the Ever-Victorious Conqueror. It’s not an either-or choice for God—God can be both Lion and Lamb, can be utterly Peaceful yet the Champion of Heaven. God WARS against sin. This is a central theme of the Story, and even if we have trouble understanding this aspect of God, we refuse it at our own peril.
Orthodox Christianity knows better. What would Augustine say to the suggestion of a milksop God, only and ever about Peace? What did Lewis (an author the speaker himself used more than once) say? Among other things, Lewis said “The Christian idea of the knight—a Christian in arms in defense of a good cause—is one of the great Christian ideas.” Violence is not always evil, as the fashioner of Narnia well knew. I believe Lewis would have been likewise aghast at the presentation of God as solely a peaceful God, to the exclusion of all else. For Aslan was a Lion—equally a Lamb, we cannot forget this—and to focus on one aspect of a multi-faceted God is to ignore an equal, yet not-quite-opposite, aspect.
The speaker also described the Final Judgment as the result of a natural law; men go to Hell not because God “sends” them there, but because they were going there all along. I agree, more or less…but some of us God has rescued from the path to Hell (and this He does, mind you, not through passivity and peace but through conflict). Also, though, the way the speaker presented the story was again incomplete to the point of misleading. Yes, men chose to walk down the path to Hell, and in that way they cannot blame God for their end; but, in the end, they are tossed into the fiery pit, as Satan and his demons are likewise tossed. Hell is where those who have rebelled against God rightly belong—but it is also a punishment. God is not uninvolved in the Final Judgment. Judgment comes from God; Death is the natural consequence of Sin, but that Law (the causality of Sin, whereby to sin is to die) is not above God: He chooses to punish according to His justice, for Who determines natural laws? He is the Judge, not a helpless bystander watching as sinful men stride into Hell, wringing His hands in impotent sorrow. Christ’s parables, for example, show otherwise: God takes active part in the harvest, burning the weeds afterwards.
One more point from the Old Testament: Exodus 19:12-13 “Put limits for the people around the mountain and tell them, “Be careful that you do not go up the mountain or touch the foot of it. Whoever touches the mountain shall surely be put to death…whether man or animal, he shall not be permitted to live,” combined with Deuteronomy 4:24 “For the LORD your God is a consuming fire, a jealous God.” These are not nice, cozy sentiments from God. Holiness is a high and weighty thing; there is an irreconcilable battle being waged between the Holy and the unholy…no compromise, but only total victory, is possible. This is a part of who God is; what is further revealed of Him in the New Testament is hugely (and rightly) comforting. But, the grace and mercy and love of God cannot be rightly understood unless this other aspect of God—the jealous lover, the fierce and total conqueror, the unflinchingly just—are also acknowledged. Furthermore, if we remember Ananias and Sapphira, we know that God Himself is unchanged, no matter the extent of His grace that has been made known.
God as only the Peaceful King, the sacrificial Lamb, is a comforting notion, especially in a world of conflict, pain, and evil. It’s easy to think of a loving God as a kind old grandfather, lacking violence or aggression…but a Just God—and, in truth, a Good God—cannot be passive when it comes to Sin, just as we should not be passive in the face of sin. In our modern culture, faced by terrorism, domestic violence, and other ills, we like to imagine a God who is without violence, without aggressive force. But the problem there is that God is not without force…the very opposite. Instead, He claims a monopoly on force. Lucifer challenges that proposition; Satan claims the right to use force for his own purposes, and there the lines are drawn. Righteous force, though, sends Satan to the earth like a bolt of lightning; Satan’s spurious force cowers and corrupts.
I think at the core of the speaker’s refusal of the warlike aspect of God is a very real difficulty in seeing the drastic difference between right and wrong force, as well as the mistake of seeing peace and threat as mutually exclusive. Without the existence of threatening force, peace has no substance; peace is the restraint of—or immunity to—threat. Christ is the Prince of Peace because He wins that peace, not because He’s incapable of war…if He were, the End would look very different. Why else would the demons shudder? Redemptive violence is a theme of Christianity, whether it’s the wrath of God poured out on His Son on the Cross, or the stripes Christ suffered for our healing, or the cleansing violence of His Second Coming, or, in fact, the violence of the Flood…and still other examples of the War raging around us. War may look very different for the Christian; our only visible battle wounds may be the worn-out holes in the knees of our jeans, our double-edge weapon is the Sword of Truth, but the battle rages anyway. We fight differently than the world, but fight we must—God arms and armors us for no other reason. He commands us to stand firm in our struggles against the powers and authorities of evil, and to “fight the good fight.”
That is the point. There is a Good Fight, and when we ignore righteous aggression (out of fear or distaste of the misused violence we see all around) we are in peril of becoming ineffectual—or even overrun by the fight that is, without exception, coming our way. One cannot fight without violence: emphasizing the Peace of God, to the exclusion of the rest of His nature, and supposing all violence to be evil is to miss out on our central Mission—in which, as the biblical and later Christian authors affirm, there are two Lions. One who is out to kill, steal, and destroy; the Other, as a kindly Beaver stated, is of course not safe…“but He's good. He's the King I tell you."
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Meditation on Psalm 83
What follows came out of what I intended to be a short note to myself on something that struck me in Psalm 83, and so it starts out rather informally and continues in long, rambling, disorganized fashion. Yet it is what I wrote as my mind roamed, so here it is:
In the Old Testament one finds such passages as this: “so pursue them with Your tempest and terrify them with Your storm. Cover their faces with shame so that men will seek your Name, O LORD” and elsewhere, in many places as well…Man, faced with the wrath of God, is expected to turn back to Him; this is found in Revelation as well. God’s destruction was, in some part, in order to turn men back to Him. This holds true for both Israel and the Gentile peoples—God’s swift justice called down in order to turn people back to Him. We find this hard to imagine now…it is God’s mercy, His unfailing love, His great forbearance, His Sacrifice for our sakes (albeit ultimately, and importantly, for His sake most of all), it is these pleasant expressions of God’s divinity that we expect will draw men to Him. Not His wrath and sharp justice. We modern men think that such harsher realities of the Divine will drive men away from God, will form barriers between them and an experience with the Holy God. I think we have watered down, or pacified, our representation of God accordingly—and harmfully. The Old Testament writers, as well as, in truth, the New Testament writers, understood aspects of God that we choose to ignore. God is a God that the warrior king David could implore to visit bloody judgment upon his enemies…for God is the original Warrior King. And, at the same time, David could entreat God to show His glory to men who did not know Him, that they might come to believe in His Name. These two desires of David’s heart (remember, he was a man after God’s own heart, after all) are not mutually exclusive, however much we moderns fail to see the complexities of reality, or choose to see opposites where complements might exist (one thinks of man’s responsibility and God’s sovereignty as a key example of that). For man, when faced with the irresistible power of God, the inarguable justice of God, the immutable laws of God, and the overwhelming, transcendent Presence of God, he no longer holds any delusions that it is God who is in the Dock. Man knows—or, more broadly, is more likely to realize—when faced with God’s wrath that he needs God’s forgiveness. It is much harder to entertain delusions of grandeur or immunity when in the midst of God’s judgment.
Of course, more is going on than simply a reminder of God’s Holiness for those being confronted with God’s harsher qualities. It is—this is probably more true to David’s intent—that the lesson is for those who witness God’s judgment on others. Psalm 37 comes to mind: “I have seen a wicked and ruthless man flourishing like a green tree in its native soil, but he soon passed away and was no more…Consider the blameless, observe the upright; there is a future for the man of peace. But all sinners will be destroyed; the future of the wicked will be cut off.” It is often a helpful reminder to see wickedness punished here on earth, although often such punishment is—unfortunately for the wicked—postponed until much later.
Yet I think such passages of the Old Testament, where is described or hoped for an encounter between wickedness and God’s just wrath, do offer an interesting commentary on the difference—superficial, as all such temporal differences are—between modern and ancient man. The Bible, I think, describes a more natural state, prey to less affections and accretions of layered culture, than does the world with which we are familiar. It seems strange to us that a loving God might display His wrath in order to draw unbelievers to Him, or that, having chosen to do so, such a ploy might work. I think this is an example of one of many ways that the Bible describes the human condition more accurately than we tend to see it, unless we consider things with more critical reason than is usual. We understand how God’s likability might draw men to Him…but we understand little about Holiness. We look askance at the many examples of God’s “tough love” of His creatures, and perhaps think “Why, wouldn’t it be better to just offer a few more blessings?” But, of course, when God acts in judgment, blessings and patience have already been thrown back in God’s face. Man, unless anchored in God, will drift under the impetus of happiness and unappreciated blessing according to the law of sin and death. Sometimes it takes God shaking things up a bit—whether in imprecatory psalm fashion, or like He did to the Children of Israel in the wilderness, or like He will do during the Tribulation. Man does not accept a new law—especially one which requires him to give up his rights—easily. Sometimes, encounters with justice or more general misfortune serve man well, like a pothole or blown tire stopping a car racing down the wrong road.
Another thing we often ignore is that all the peoples of the earth belong to God; they are for His pleasure, and He acts in a way that brings things more closely under the covering of His will. I think ancient man understood, at varying levels of consciousness, that he existed for the satisfaction of God. The difference between modern and ancient man in this regard ties into Lewis’s “God in the Dock” distinction, and also likely results from the synthetic/artificial world we live in, insulated by illusions of control which ancient man largely lacked. But, it was a rarity in the ancient world for a man to believe in no god at all, or to disdain the gods of his people; God’s display of power, therefore, reminded unbelievers the HE alone was the True God…such a reminder is always and ever for man’s benefit. It may, of course, be an extremely uncomfortable benefit, but encountering the existence of our Creator is perhaps a necessary step in the journey to understand His Holy love and person and entering into relationship with Him. And perhaps this is why a psalmist might implore God to “Rise up, O God, judge the earth, for all the nations are Your inheritance;” he understood that God was the judge of the nations, that they existed for Him, and that God displaying His Nature was, in the long run, the best possible thing.
And yet I’ve still approached the issue from the angle of how God’s display of just power benefits man; I know, however, that the core issue is how such an action glorifies God. Yet I can’t move away from the reality, strange to my modern mind, that God’s harsh displays do draw people to Him. It does make sense, though, especially if one studies the experience of Israel in the Old Testament (or even, maybe, Israel’s experience since the Diaspora). Yet I find myself thinking of God’s harsh justice as punishment first…which it possibly is, especially in certain cases. It’s hard to wrap my mind around asking for God’s swift judgment so that men might be saved…but in that I think I am an oddity over the long tradition of the people of God; I’ve been programmed by political correctness—both within and without the Church—and an emphasis on tolerance over love, on platitudes over absolutes, on niceties over justice. We frown at the imprecatory psalms, shake our heads at Augustine’s “just war,” categorically oppose the idea of the Christian Knight, argue vehemently against those who describe natural disasters as “the judgment of God” (who, after all, really knows? There are quite a few precedents, one must remember). God knows best, and He was not always warm and friendly with a rebellious Israel—or with Israel’s pagan neighbors—and we should never apologize for this. God is a tempest and a storm, and sometimes His righteous violence forces men to face the Truth, and sometimes they respond by seeking His Name.
In the Old Testament one finds such passages as this: “so pursue them with Your tempest and terrify them with Your storm. Cover their faces with shame so that men will seek your Name, O LORD” and elsewhere, in many places as well…Man, faced with the wrath of God, is expected to turn back to Him; this is found in Revelation as well. God’s destruction was, in some part, in order to turn men back to Him. This holds true for both Israel and the Gentile peoples—God’s swift justice called down in order to turn people back to Him. We find this hard to imagine now…it is God’s mercy, His unfailing love, His great forbearance, His Sacrifice for our sakes (albeit ultimately, and importantly, for His sake most of all), it is these pleasant expressions of God’s divinity that we expect will draw men to Him. Not His wrath and sharp justice. We modern men think that such harsher realities of the Divine will drive men away from God, will form barriers between them and an experience with the Holy God. I think we have watered down, or pacified, our representation of God accordingly—and harmfully. The Old Testament writers, as well as, in truth, the New Testament writers, understood aspects of God that we choose to ignore. God is a God that the warrior king David could implore to visit bloody judgment upon his enemies…for God is the original Warrior King. And, at the same time, David could entreat God to show His glory to men who did not know Him, that they might come to believe in His Name. These two desires of David’s heart (remember, he was a man after God’s own heart, after all) are not mutually exclusive, however much we moderns fail to see the complexities of reality, or choose to see opposites where complements might exist (one thinks of man’s responsibility and God’s sovereignty as a key example of that). For man, when faced with the irresistible power of God, the inarguable justice of God, the immutable laws of God, and the overwhelming, transcendent Presence of God, he no longer holds any delusions that it is God who is in the Dock. Man knows—or, more broadly, is more likely to realize—when faced with God’s wrath that he needs God’s forgiveness. It is much harder to entertain delusions of grandeur or immunity when in the midst of God’s judgment.
Of course, more is going on than simply a reminder of God’s Holiness for those being confronted with God’s harsher qualities. It is—this is probably more true to David’s intent—that the lesson is for those who witness God’s judgment on others. Psalm 37 comes to mind: “I have seen a wicked and ruthless man flourishing like a green tree in its native soil, but he soon passed away and was no more…Consider the blameless, observe the upright; there is a future for the man of peace. But all sinners will be destroyed; the future of the wicked will be cut off.” It is often a helpful reminder to see wickedness punished here on earth, although often such punishment is—unfortunately for the wicked—postponed until much later.
Yet I think such passages of the Old Testament, where is described or hoped for an encounter between wickedness and God’s just wrath, do offer an interesting commentary on the difference—superficial, as all such temporal differences are—between modern and ancient man. The Bible, I think, describes a more natural state, prey to less affections and accretions of layered culture, than does the world with which we are familiar. It seems strange to us that a loving God might display His wrath in order to draw unbelievers to Him, or that, having chosen to do so, such a ploy might work. I think this is an example of one of many ways that the Bible describes the human condition more accurately than we tend to see it, unless we consider things with more critical reason than is usual. We understand how God’s likability might draw men to Him…but we understand little about Holiness. We look askance at the many examples of God’s “tough love” of His creatures, and perhaps think “Why, wouldn’t it be better to just offer a few more blessings?” But, of course, when God acts in judgment, blessings and patience have already been thrown back in God’s face. Man, unless anchored in God, will drift under the impetus of happiness and unappreciated blessing according to the law of sin and death. Sometimes it takes God shaking things up a bit—whether in imprecatory psalm fashion, or like He did to the Children of Israel in the wilderness, or like He will do during the Tribulation. Man does not accept a new law—especially one which requires him to give up his rights—easily. Sometimes, encounters with justice or more general misfortune serve man well, like a pothole or blown tire stopping a car racing down the wrong road.
Another thing we often ignore is that all the peoples of the earth belong to God; they are for His pleasure, and He acts in a way that brings things more closely under the covering of His will. I think ancient man understood, at varying levels of consciousness, that he existed for the satisfaction of God. The difference between modern and ancient man in this regard ties into Lewis’s “God in the Dock” distinction, and also likely results from the synthetic/artificial world we live in, insulated by illusions of control which ancient man largely lacked. But, it was a rarity in the ancient world for a man to believe in no god at all, or to disdain the gods of his people; God’s display of power, therefore, reminded unbelievers the HE alone was the True God…such a reminder is always and ever for man’s benefit. It may, of course, be an extremely uncomfortable benefit, but encountering the existence of our Creator is perhaps a necessary step in the journey to understand His Holy love and person and entering into relationship with Him. And perhaps this is why a psalmist might implore God to “Rise up, O God, judge the earth, for all the nations are Your inheritance;” he understood that God was the judge of the nations, that they existed for Him, and that God displaying His Nature was, in the long run, the best possible thing.
And yet I’ve still approached the issue from the angle of how God’s display of just power benefits man; I know, however, that the core issue is how such an action glorifies God. Yet I can’t move away from the reality, strange to my modern mind, that God’s harsh displays do draw people to Him. It does make sense, though, especially if one studies the experience of Israel in the Old Testament (or even, maybe, Israel’s experience since the Diaspora). Yet I find myself thinking of God’s harsh justice as punishment first…which it possibly is, especially in certain cases. It’s hard to wrap my mind around asking for God’s swift judgment so that men might be saved…but in that I think I am an oddity over the long tradition of the people of God; I’ve been programmed by political correctness—both within and without the Church—and an emphasis on tolerance over love, on platitudes over absolutes, on niceties over justice. We frown at the imprecatory psalms, shake our heads at Augustine’s “just war,” categorically oppose the idea of the Christian Knight, argue vehemently against those who describe natural disasters as “the judgment of God” (who, after all, really knows? There are quite a few precedents, one must remember). God knows best, and He was not always warm and friendly with a rebellious Israel—or with Israel’s pagan neighbors—and we should never apologize for this. God is a tempest and a storm, and sometimes His righteous violence forces men to face the Truth, and sometimes they respond by seeking His Name.
Friday, October 2, 2009
October 1st
Today was my second full day in Oxford, and already I feel fairly well settled in; that’s not to say I’m not a tad daunted by the prospect of all that is left to do before class—not to mention the amount of work that will accompany those classes. Part of the problem is that it’s relatively unclear what precisely I am supposed to do—this has been a common theme in my experience thus far, beginning with my student visa ordeal and continuing through accommodation and finances and various pre-term details. Getting ready for a year at Oxford is made somewhat more complicated in part because of the tri-partite nature of the school; the University (Oxford itself), College (St Hilda’s), and Faculty (History) entities each have their own way of doing things, their own tasks, own advisors, own locations, own cultures, own libraries…I even have separate email addresses for my separate college and faculty roles. However, the exceedingly (and, at times, seemingly needlessly) complicated process has been made more manageable in part because of all the fellow graduate students I’ve met. That’s not to say we are able to offer each other much in the way of information about what exactly it is we are supposed to do, but there’s something to be said for commiseration and the herd mentality. Knowing that we are together all adjusting to the Oxford way of doing things, an incredibly well-established but often counter-intuitive way, is a comfort. Also, the staff people at Oxford are quite friendly, and being at Oxford itself makes all manner of hoops worth jumping through. I’m going to for the most part skip the various tasks that threaten to bother me at times, and aim for an account of my broader Oxford experience.
So, back to the beginning. I arrived in London late Tuesday morning, and slowly made my way to Oxford. I didn’t really know how to get there, or to my college or house, but managed anyway—with a well-ordered public transport system, most things are possible. Upon arrival at St Hilda’s (my college), I ran into a fellow American whom I had met at the UK consulate in Chicago, where we both had to go to procure our visas. I quickly met several other Hilda’s students…but that is jumping a bit ahead. The first fellow Oxford student I met was on the bus ride from Heathrow Airport, a Harvard graduate and a nice guy, though undoubtedly jealous of my superior undergraduate education. There were a few other Americans Oxford-bound on the bus, although we more or less split ways upon arrival.
Oxford is quite a busy place, with students, locals, and tourists flowing ceaselessly through the well-worn streets, but always above the crowded thoroughfares are the spires and old stone walls of the University offer a timeless commentary on the daily progression below. My college is on the banks of the Cherwell, more or less opposite Magdalen College, a pleasant little place with lots of old trees and green lawns. I’ve walked (it feels like) all over my side of Oxford; my house is about a mile from the Cherwell, so I put quite a lot of distance in each day…though not enough to be a bother, at least not yet. Things may be different on dark, rainy winter days. However, if the miles of walking aren’t enough to keep me in shape, I pass by the gym on my way home; incidentally, the track here is where Roger Bannister first broke the 4-minute mile record. Also incidental, the first coffee shop I visited (not, in fact, for coffee) was founded in 1646. Relatively old, I would say.
My first full day in Oxford (yesterday) started off with an introduction talk(s) for international postgraduate students. It was a lot of information; a mixture of things I already knew, things I needed to know but have basically already forgotten, things that will surface on their own, and things I probably don’t need to know. It was a bit disorganized, but there was a free lunch so I can’t really complain. I did find out about a free dinner that night, which happened to be hosted by the Graduate Christian Union—so I of course went, along with Scott (the St Hilda’s guy I met in Chicago) and some other Hilda’s people. It was good to get connected to a Christian society right away, and the table I sat at during dinner was full of great people—four of which I already knew, with four more who spent the rest of the evening with.
A quick description of these people: Scott, from Wisconsin, is working on his master’s degree in the social science of the internet; he’s a computer science student, among other things, who spent the last year teaching English in Japan. Kate is from North Carolina, and I think she’s working on her master’s in Women’s Studies…her friend from college was also present, visiting her in Oxford after several months spent working in Nepal. She’s not a student currently, but blended in quite well. Then there is Lia, a Romanian who has lived in Boston for the past 12 years, including her undergraduate career at Harvard. She is studying Art History, and hopefully she’ll give me a tour of Romania some day. Next came Alex, a German who is studying Computer Programming; then Nike, a Canadian studying for a D.Phil (basically a Ph.D) in Quantum mechanics; then Cecile, from Paris, working on a D.Phil in Physics—with an astro-physics/astronomy bent; Deborah, from Bombay, who is working on a D.Phil in English Literature and was our more experienced host of the evening. After the dinner Deborah took us out to a pub (one advantage to the British culture—even at a Christian gathering it is recommended we go out to the pubs after); we went to the Turl Bar, which we reached by going through another pub and down a quasi-underground alleyway area.
My house, as I mentioned, is a little far out (although I’ve met several people with a longer distance to walk). It’s a nice little place though, 3 or 4 stories (depending on whether or not you count the loft, where the landlord/owner/fellow resident resides). It’s rather like a duplex, pretty narrow but with everything necessary for a good time in England, including an apple tree with ripe apples in the back garden. I have 4 flatmates, including the owner; all of whom are British and none of whom are Oxford students, though one does go to Oxford Brookes University, another school here though not affiliated with Oxford University. I like the fact that I’m living with Brits, because my days have been mostly filled with hanging out with other international postgraduates, most of whom are American. Although the British postgraduates should be coming in this weekend, it’s good to have a default British household.
Today kind of flew by, although I had my first meeting with my advisor (my faculty advisor, who happens to be my college advisor as well—such an overlap is, I think, a rarity). And so I have a bit more of an idea what is expected of me, academically speaking. Hopefully I will fashion a much greater understanding in the weeks to come. Also, I went to the grocery store for the first time here, which is of course a noteworthy milestone—I will be able to eat. I also met my first Rhodes Scholar here. And, I had a late lunch/early dinner with three other postgrads, including a home-made apple pie from apples we picked. I cannot say I did much in preparing the meal, other than watching…but I did cut up the apples, which was about the limit of my cooking skills. Tonight I will have a late-night snack, Kebab-shop style—something I have missed from my year in Scotland. This one goes out to Chris Ballantine.
There is so much I could say, especially if I went deeper into my appreciation for Oxford and this opportunity I have…or if I started talking about what this term will look like, what sort of things I will be studying, where I want to travel, or if I began writing about Oxford history/trivia and describing the scenery, or what all I have to do over the next couple weeks. But, I think this is about it for one posting; pax vobiscum (I’m supposed to know Latin now…do I? That remains to be seen).
So, back to the beginning. I arrived in London late Tuesday morning, and slowly made my way to Oxford. I didn’t really know how to get there, or to my college or house, but managed anyway—with a well-ordered public transport system, most things are possible. Upon arrival at St Hilda’s (my college), I ran into a fellow American whom I had met at the UK consulate in Chicago, where we both had to go to procure our visas. I quickly met several other Hilda’s students…but that is jumping a bit ahead. The first fellow Oxford student I met was on the bus ride from Heathrow Airport, a Harvard graduate and a nice guy, though undoubtedly jealous of my superior undergraduate education. There were a few other Americans Oxford-bound on the bus, although we more or less split ways upon arrival.
Oxford is quite a busy place, with students, locals, and tourists flowing ceaselessly through the well-worn streets, but always above the crowded thoroughfares are the spires and old stone walls of the University offer a timeless commentary on the daily progression below. My college is on the banks of the Cherwell, more or less opposite Magdalen College, a pleasant little place with lots of old trees and green lawns. I’ve walked (it feels like) all over my side of Oxford; my house is about a mile from the Cherwell, so I put quite a lot of distance in each day…though not enough to be a bother, at least not yet. Things may be different on dark, rainy winter days. However, if the miles of walking aren’t enough to keep me in shape, I pass by the gym on my way home; incidentally, the track here is where Roger Bannister first broke the 4-minute mile record. Also incidental, the first coffee shop I visited (not, in fact, for coffee) was founded in 1646. Relatively old, I would say.
My first full day in Oxford (yesterday) started off with an introduction talk(s) for international postgraduate students. It was a lot of information; a mixture of things I already knew, things I needed to know but have basically already forgotten, things that will surface on their own, and things I probably don’t need to know. It was a bit disorganized, but there was a free lunch so I can’t really complain. I did find out about a free dinner that night, which happened to be hosted by the Graduate Christian Union—so I of course went, along with Scott (the St Hilda’s guy I met in Chicago) and some other Hilda’s people. It was good to get connected to a Christian society right away, and the table I sat at during dinner was full of great people—four of which I already knew, with four more who spent the rest of the evening with.
A quick description of these people: Scott, from Wisconsin, is working on his master’s degree in the social science of the internet; he’s a computer science student, among other things, who spent the last year teaching English in Japan. Kate is from North Carolina, and I think she’s working on her master’s in Women’s Studies…her friend from college was also present, visiting her in Oxford after several months spent working in Nepal. She’s not a student currently, but blended in quite well. Then there is Lia, a Romanian who has lived in Boston for the past 12 years, including her undergraduate career at Harvard. She is studying Art History, and hopefully she’ll give me a tour of Romania some day. Next came Alex, a German who is studying Computer Programming; then Nike, a Canadian studying for a D.Phil (basically a Ph.D) in Quantum mechanics; then Cecile, from Paris, working on a D.Phil in Physics—with an astro-physics/astronomy bent; Deborah, from Bombay, who is working on a D.Phil in English Literature and was our more experienced host of the evening. After the dinner Deborah took us out to a pub (one advantage to the British culture—even at a Christian gathering it is recommended we go out to the pubs after); we went to the Turl Bar, which we reached by going through another pub and down a quasi-underground alleyway area.
My house, as I mentioned, is a little far out (although I’ve met several people with a longer distance to walk). It’s a nice little place though, 3 or 4 stories (depending on whether or not you count the loft, where the landlord/owner/fellow resident resides). It’s rather like a duplex, pretty narrow but with everything necessary for a good time in England, including an apple tree with ripe apples in the back garden. I have 4 flatmates, including the owner; all of whom are British and none of whom are Oxford students, though one does go to Oxford Brookes University, another school here though not affiliated with Oxford University. I like the fact that I’m living with Brits, because my days have been mostly filled with hanging out with other international postgraduates, most of whom are American. Although the British postgraduates should be coming in this weekend, it’s good to have a default British household.
Today kind of flew by, although I had my first meeting with my advisor (my faculty advisor, who happens to be my college advisor as well—such an overlap is, I think, a rarity). And so I have a bit more of an idea what is expected of me, academically speaking. Hopefully I will fashion a much greater understanding in the weeks to come. Also, I went to the grocery store for the first time here, which is of course a noteworthy milestone—I will be able to eat. I also met my first Rhodes Scholar here. And, I had a late lunch/early dinner with three other postgrads, including a home-made apple pie from apples we picked. I cannot say I did much in preparing the meal, other than watching…but I did cut up the apples, which was about the limit of my cooking skills. Tonight I will have a late-night snack, Kebab-shop style—something I have missed from my year in Scotland. This one goes out to Chris Ballantine.
There is so much I could say, especially if I went deeper into my appreciation for Oxford and this opportunity I have…or if I started talking about what this term will look like, what sort of things I will be studying, where I want to travel, or if I began writing about Oxford history/trivia and describing the scenery, or what all I have to do over the next couple weeks. But, I think this is about it for one posting; pax vobiscum (I’m supposed to know Latin now…do I? That remains to be seen).
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Devolution of Western Society, Pt 1.
Our common worldview in the West has regressed most dreadfully over the past several generations. We think we are living in a progressive society—if only we could see how far we have backslid; if only we could understand that the popularity of the moment weighs little compared to the wisdom of the ages; if only we woke up to the fact that “chronological snobbery” has blinded us to the truth that we are not inherently wiser than those who went before. In truth, they had the advantage over us, for we have burned our bridges and willfully forgotten the foundations of wisdom passed down to us—previous generations at least had roots to help them grow, whereas we, in our epiphytic short-sightedness, detach ourselves from our host-tree as if we will do anything but fall.
Paganism, polytheism, and monotheism (of most sorts, at least) are better than post-modern, secular, “God-in-the-Dock” agnosticism—an agnosticism that falls short of atheism only because the question isn’t really of much interest anymore. Myth is better than scientific theory—for “myth” appeals to what is true, while theory invokes only what is deemed probable. The Way of Christ is no aberrant deviation from the tradition of the ancients—Jews to whom it was shamefully mundane, Greeks to whom it was foolishness, and all the rest who at the very least understood the Creator held more sway than mere creatures. No, as Lewis and others have rightly pointed out, Christianity is not 100% different from the varied spiritual endeavors of non-Christians; others got it “broadly right,” in many cases, and one can find the vast majority of Truth in other paths…but (and this is the critical point) Jesus fulfilled it all, presented perfect Truth, shone a pure light amongst the fitful campfires of the primitive seekers. We modern Christians often forget that the many of the ancients were “very religious in all respects,” worshipping in ignorance what Paul offered through Christ, and—though they groped around for the Light as if blind—God was not far from them (Acts 17:22-27).
Christ is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and none come to the Father except through Him. But that does not mean all other ways are equally distant from the truth; all errors are not equally dangerous, for although all, if uncorrected, condemn, some are corrected much more easily. Those men at Athens who already worshipped the Unknown God had a shorter distance to go to Christ than the worshippers of Aphrodite in Corinth; Nicodemus apparently had a shorter distance than Pilate, the Jews generally had a shorter distance than the Greeks, someone born into a Christian culture today has a shorter distance than someone born in an Islamic nation. But, as noted above, Pagans and others who believe in a God or many gods have a shorter distance to travel to Christ than someone who discounts entirely the supernatural and spiritual realms.
Modern Western society stands at a dreadful distance from the Way of Christ. Mainstream elements have, I believe, veered drastically away from a healthy worldview since at least the poorly-named Enlightenment. It was around then that the shift Lewis notes in “God in the Dock” became so popular. Man lost sight of the fact that the Creator was his judge and instead tried to place Him in the Dock—the seat of the defendant. That is something that we fail to address enough today.
Western Christians live in a postmodern world—a world that has “lost its story”—and we are woefully unprepared to understand His Story…in truth, the story of us all, in one form or another. Relativism is not just a foolish, flawed worldview—it is a tragic mistake, a dangerous path, an anti-rational disease that sickens a whole society. When there are no absolutes, tolerance usurps the place of Love, resignation reigns over resolution, deception overshadows truth, shallowness dries up meaning, and political correctness takes over the common good. We do not know the true stories that lay upon us all, we fail to see the meaning in the madness…instead, we embrace the madness and call its chaos freedom. As Christians, though, we’ve been given a lens that allows us to see, although often we still choose not to look in the right direction. Too many Christians see their identity as existing alongside the multifarious identities of the fallen world and ignore the critical divide between truth and error. Part of this is, I think, that we are not burdened with God’s heart for the lost: we fall woefully short of the standard “leave the 99 to find the 1 who is lost.” I know that’s part of the problem because it is something I see in myself.
But also there is, I believe, not enough confidence in the Truth. Not enough understanding of the Story. We don’t shine our certainty confidently into an uncertain world—a world that deeply craves meaning and attachment to the story for which they were crafted. We treat other religions or other worldviews as if they are equal to our own—as if “our Story” was merely something told by human mouths. Some small part of this is perhaps a fear of coming across as arrogant…but I think that a poorer excuse than most would have it. Surely, we don’t want our attitudes to ever turn somebody away from the truth, but how eager and insistent should someone be who possesses a cure of absolute importance? Confidence in the Way of Christ is not arrogance. Granted, it is not through our confidence, our knowledge, our humility, or our attitude that people will come to Christ, but only through the Spirit of God; but still our competence, our confidence, comes from God and should not be watered down by the confusion of our neighbors. For we do not speak the truth to them for our sakes, but for their sake and God’s glory. They need this Story, and they need the meaning we have been shown.
Those who believe any story tend to find it easier to learn the real Story; those who believe in truth at all can better be shown the Truth than the post-modern relativists who squeeze their eyes shut lest they face an uncomfortable reality. Relativism would suggest that whatever truth we know is little more than an opinion. We must not fall for that lie, for truth does not have its origin in man and is not malleable to his will. There is no such thing as too much confidence in the truth of the Gospel, no such thing as being too certain about that which remains, for now, unseen. Rather than disparaging the “primitive” mythologies of the savage and the ancient, we should acknowledge that they, at least, grasp half-blind for truths our contemporaries feign to forget. There is a danger in being too “modern;” there is an even greater danger in falling under the label “post-modern,” for in doing so one trades the hope of firm footing for the shifting ground of a mire.
Paganism, polytheism, and monotheism (of most sorts, at least) are better than post-modern, secular, “God-in-the-Dock” agnosticism—an agnosticism that falls short of atheism only because the question isn’t really of much interest anymore. Myth is better than scientific theory—for “myth” appeals to what is true, while theory invokes only what is deemed probable. The Way of Christ is no aberrant deviation from the tradition of the ancients—Jews to whom it was shamefully mundane, Greeks to whom it was foolishness, and all the rest who at the very least understood the Creator held more sway than mere creatures. No, as Lewis and others have rightly pointed out, Christianity is not 100% different from the varied spiritual endeavors of non-Christians; others got it “broadly right,” in many cases, and one can find the vast majority of Truth in other paths…but (and this is the critical point) Jesus fulfilled it all, presented perfect Truth, shone a pure light amongst the fitful campfires of the primitive seekers. We modern Christians often forget that the many of the ancients were “very religious in all respects,” worshipping in ignorance what Paul offered through Christ, and—though they groped around for the Light as if blind—God was not far from them (Acts 17:22-27).
Christ is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and none come to the Father except through Him. But that does not mean all other ways are equally distant from the truth; all errors are not equally dangerous, for although all, if uncorrected, condemn, some are corrected much more easily. Those men at Athens who already worshipped the Unknown God had a shorter distance to go to Christ than the worshippers of Aphrodite in Corinth; Nicodemus apparently had a shorter distance than Pilate, the Jews generally had a shorter distance than the Greeks, someone born into a Christian culture today has a shorter distance than someone born in an Islamic nation. But, as noted above, Pagans and others who believe in a God or many gods have a shorter distance to travel to Christ than someone who discounts entirely the supernatural and spiritual realms.
Modern Western society stands at a dreadful distance from the Way of Christ. Mainstream elements have, I believe, veered drastically away from a healthy worldview since at least the poorly-named Enlightenment. It was around then that the shift Lewis notes in “God in the Dock” became so popular. Man lost sight of the fact that the Creator was his judge and instead tried to place Him in the Dock—the seat of the defendant. That is something that we fail to address enough today.
Western Christians live in a postmodern world—a world that has “lost its story”—and we are woefully unprepared to understand His Story…in truth, the story of us all, in one form or another. Relativism is not just a foolish, flawed worldview—it is a tragic mistake, a dangerous path, an anti-rational disease that sickens a whole society. When there are no absolutes, tolerance usurps the place of Love, resignation reigns over resolution, deception overshadows truth, shallowness dries up meaning, and political correctness takes over the common good. We do not know the true stories that lay upon us all, we fail to see the meaning in the madness…instead, we embrace the madness and call its chaos freedom. As Christians, though, we’ve been given a lens that allows us to see, although often we still choose not to look in the right direction. Too many Christians see their identity as existing alongside the multifarious identities of the fallen world and ignore the critical divide between truth and error. Part of this is, I think, that we are not burdened with God’s heart for the lost: we fall woefully short of the standard “leave the 99 to find the 1 who is lost.” I know that’s part of the problem because it is something I see in myself.
But also there is, I believe, not enough confidence in the Truth. Not enough understanding of the Story. We don’t shine our certainty confidently into an uncertain world—a world that deeply craves meaning and attachment to the story for which they were crafted. We treat other religions or other worldviews as if they are equal to our own—as if “our Story” was merely something told by human mouths. Some small part of this is perhaps a fear of coming across as arrogant…but I think that a poorer excuse than most would have it. Surely, we don’t want our attitudes to ever turn somebody away from the truth, but how eager and insistent should someone be who possesses a cure of absolute importance? Confidence in the Way of Christ is not arrogance. Granted, it is not through our confidence, our knowledge, our humility, or our attitude that people will come to Christ, but only through the Spirit of God; but still our competence, our confidence, comes from God and should not be watered down by the confusion of our neighbors. For we do not speak the truth to them for our sakes, but for their sake and God’s glory. They need this Story, and they need the meaning we have been shown.
Those who believe any story tend to find it easier to learn the real Story; those who believe in truth at all can better be shown the Truth than the post-modern relativists who squeeze their eyes shut lest they face an uncomfortable reality. Relativism would suggest that whatever truth we know is little more than an opinion. We must not fall for that lie, for truth does not have its origin in man and is not malleable to his will. There is no such thing as too much confidence in the truth of the Gospel, no such thing as being too certain about that which remains, for now, unseen. Rather than disparaging the “primitive” mythologies of the savage and the ancient, we should acknowledge that they, at least, grasp half-blind for truths our contemporaries feign to forget. There is a danger in being too “modern;” there is an even greater danger in falling under the label “post-modern,” for in doing so one trades the hope of firm footing for the shifting ground of a mire.
Monday, August 3, 2009
A Lesson Both New and Old
Having grown up in a more Christian than average environment—socially, religiously, and intellectually—I find that often I know things before I really learn them. Perhaps this is not really a result of the Christian context of my life, but what I mean is that I’ll often encounter an idea, whether in book, Bible, conversation, or sermon, and know it to be true. And yet the truth of it, though met with assent, is not paired with understanding—not even of the necessarily-limited sort that my mind allows.
Maybe this is simply because spiritual truths take a while to settle into the mental language I’m more familiar with, or else due to the difference between learning by observation and learning by experience; I don’t know. There are countless examples of this, however, of lessons known and then seen later at a deeper, more personal level. One in particular has settled deeper into my understanding as of late.
C. S. Lewis makes the point (as have many others) that God demonstrates a certain humility in accepting our obedience to Him. Most, if not all, human egos would be too offended to actually crave the sort of offering we give to God: Lewis notes that we tend to accept God only when we have learned that absolutely nothing else is capable of pleasing or saving. We come to God, more often than not, as a last resort. We turn to Him after we’ve turned to all manner of other things…what human lover (one, it must be remembered, who is completely secure, satisfied, and self-sufficient) would accept a woman after she had turned to every other lover she could find, only to finally surrender, somewhat despondently perhaps, back to the One Who deserves her attention? God views the creatures He alone formed, who not only betrayed Him so momentously once, but who again and again look for other gods, other loves, and who usually turn back to Him only when they realize themselves at the end of their ropes…and He views them with love, as if they chose Him in a respectable way.
Of course, this…oversight…of the insufficiency of our love and faith is only made possible by the all-Sufficiency of the Son of God’s Crucifixion. Still, though, Christ’s mission was initiated by God and for God, so I don’t think it changes at all (or rather, it merely increases) the marvelous quality of God accepting our feeble and frantic surrender to His love with what, in a human lover, would be seemingly imprudent and over-extreme humility. We would tell such a man “you deserve better; don’t lower your standards so far.” Thank God He found a way to keep both His standards and us.
I’ve skipped ahead. I encountered this truth many years ago and knew it as true. But my well-developed ideas about it (inchoate, certainly, compared to Lewis’ own thoughts) come mainly from a recent encounter with two familiar passages of Scripture…for the first time, I think, I saw these two passages as connecting to this idea of the unassuming nature of God’s acceptance of us. (Note that such words as “humility” and “unassuming,” when talking about this side of salvation, are used only because I can find no better. I think they are not correct, in a strict manner; God’s nature demonstrates Glory first and foremost, and using “humble” to describe God’s victorious and heroic claiming of us is a woefully incomplete adjective. But I’m focusing on the idea that He accepts a sort of love we mortals have a hard time understanding or accepting—although, through Christ, we are expected to extend it.)
The two passages I’m talking about are the Parable of the Prodigal Son and Hosea 2. The first is more familiar to most people, almost certainly, and there is nothing new I could say about such a frequently encountered passage—of course, nihil novum sub sole; “saying something new” is, if even possible, not a virtue when talking about the Bible. But it’s really the comparison between the two passages that struck me.
The “prodigal” son deeply insulted his father, left, squandered his wealth and his life on empty, depraved living; when he reached rock-bottom, he came to his senses and said: “How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.” He wanted to be taken back, if only as the lowest of his father’s servants. So he returned…and “while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” His father was not willing that his son be his servant; he would unconditionally take him back as his son once more. There are, of course, several lessons there.
But the similarity to Hosea 2 is what struck me recently. Hosea, after marrying a prostitute as directed by God and giving her all she could want, experienced the continual betrayal and shame of an unfaithful spouse; this, of course, illustrates God’s relationship with His People. In the second chapter (after a few verses that may serve as a reminder of God’s justice), God shows, I think, the Heart behind the punishments/trails/difficulties His creatures face. God demonstrates that His end-goal is always the redemption of those lost, the forgiveness and reconciliation with those who willfully abuse His Love and Holiness. Right after saying He will punish His unfaithful spouse, in short because she forgot Him and turned to other lovers, He states unequivocally that He won’t leave it at that. He also, as I stated above, at least hints that those punishments are sent in order to turn her away from dependence on other lovers…He wants her to reach rock-bottom (as did the prodigal son) so that she will turn to Him, the “one who gave her the grain, the new wine and oil, who lavished on her the silver and gold,” her One True Hope (v.8). This is what He says in v.14ff:
“Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her. There I will give her back her vineyards…There she will sing as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt. "In that day," declares the LORD, "you will call Me ‘my husband’; you will no longer call Me ‘my master.’”
The prodigal son’s father refused to consider his son a servant; the Lord refuses to let His bride see Him as master. God as Lover and God as Father, these identities never supersede God as King, but they go hand in hand…and we far too often ignore these expressions of God’s holy love. But really what strikes me is that difficult-to-describe quality of God’s love for us…what seems like humility at first glance, a crazily unassuming ability to accept a response from us that is one iota short of being forced, but what is, I think, ultimately an expression of the supreme self-confidence and independence of God. He does not love us out of any inherent need; unlike us, His love (though ever for His Glory) is something extended purely, not from a grasping need for wholeness—for He is always Whole—but out of the overflow of His Love for Himself. We unavoidably needy, dependent (we were made that way) and, of course, fallen creatures find it difficult to love when there is no benefit to us, no semblance of worthiness in the object of our love, no real indication from our beloved that they would choose us on their own. God, both as Father and as Husband/Lover/LORD, forgets our sins when we are no longer lost, and His joy overflows into blessings for us, in spite of the fact that He must rescue us from the depraved state of our own rebellion against Him, in spite of the fact we tend to frantically seek an escape when He closes in with His Love, in spite of the fact of what it cost Him.
Incidentally, I think this is where one of the problematic issues of Catholicism comes in; God is not a God of purgatory, Who saves from Hell yet nevertheless punishes after death for sins. He allures us back, He rushes down the road and celebrates our return. Maybe the idea of purgatory was fashioned out of a desire to show that sin is indeed grave, and to dissuade Christians from the idea of cheap grace—that, once saved, our sins are of no real account, for they are already paid for. But the idea of purgatory is in reality an affront to the true costliness of Grace: it is in fact because of the ultimate price our Salvation cost God that our sins are no longer counted against us, tossed as far away as the East is from the West, and we know that it is for freedom we have been set free. Purgatory seeks to make us pay part of the price of sin; nevertheless, Jesus’ Sacrifice was sufficient to pay the entirety of the price.
But that’s a tangent. And I have wandered far afield. It simply astounds me, the perfection of God’s Love. We love because He first loved us, and yet still we can’t quite follow His example; for while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. While we were sinners…prodigal sons, faithless prostitutes, persecutors of God’s people…God showed that, contrary to our expectations and upbringing, He still craved relationship with us. And not the relationship of master and servant, but a relationship founded on Love; and a craving not born out of need, but out of overflowing sufficiency. Our human expectations are that, if God takes us back, it is with conditions…but I think these two passages, one from the OT and one from the NT, show that God’s love overwhelms, that instead of hoops we need to jump through we need just turn to Him, no matter how much we have avoided Him in the past—and He’s actively involved in restoring that relationship all the while. And it should always be remembered—it is only through Christ that this is possible.
Maybe this is simply because spiritual truths take a while to settle into the mental language I’m more familiar with, or else due to the difference between learning by observation and learning by experience; I don’t know. There are countless examples of this, however, of lessons known and then seen later at a deeper, more personal level. One in particular has settled deeper into my understanding as of late.
C. S. Lewis makes the point (as have many others) that God demonstrates a certain humility in accepting our obedience to Him. Most, if not all, human egos would be too offended to actually crave the sort of offering we give to God: Lewis notes that we tend to accept God only when we have learned that absolutely nothing else is capable of pleasing or saving. We come to God, more often than not, as a last resort. We turn to Him after we’ve turned to all manner of other things…what human lover (one, it must be remembered, who is completely secure, satisfied, and self-sufficient) would accept a woman after she had turned to every other lover she could find, only to finally surrender, somewhat despondently perhaps, back to the One Who deserves her attention? God views the creatures He alone formed, who not only betrayed Him so momentously once, but who again and again look for other gods, other loves, and who usually turn back to Him only when they realize themselves at the end of their ropes…and He views them with love, as if they chose Him in a respectable way.
Of course, this…oversight…of the insufficiency of our love and faith is only made possible by the all-Sufficiency of the Son of God’s Crucifixion. Still, though, Christ’s mission was initiated by God and for God, so I don’t think it changes at all (or rather, it merely increases) the marvelous quality of God accepting our feeble and frantic surrender to His love with what, in a human lover, would be seemingly imprudent and over-extreme humility. We would tell such a man “you deserve better; don’t lower your standards so far.” Thank God He found a way to keep both His standards and us.
I’ve skipped ahead. I encountered this truth many years ago and knew it as true. But my well-developed ideas about it (inchoate, certainly, compared to Lewis’ own thoughts) come mainly from a recent encounter with two familiar passages of Scripture…for the first time, I think, I saw these two passages as connecting to this idea of the unassuming nature of God’s acceptance of us. (Note that such words as “humility” and “unassuming,” when talking about this side of salvation, are used only because I can find no better. I think they are not correct, in a strict manner; God’s nature demonstrates Glory first and foremost, and using “humble” to describe God’s victorious and heroic claiming of us is a woefully incomplete adjective. But I’m focusing on the idea that He accepts a sort of love we mortals have a hard time understanding or accepting—although, through Christ, we are expected to extend it.)
The two passages I’m talking about are the Parable of the Prodigal Son and Hosea 2. The first is more familiar to most people, almost certainly, and there is nothing new I could say about such a frequently encountered passage—of course, nihil novum sub sole; “saying something new” is, if even possible, not a virtue when talking about the Bible. But it’s really the comparison between the two passages that struck me.
The “prodigal” son deeply insulted his father, left, squandered his wealth and his life on empty, depraved living; when he reached rock-bottom, he came to his senses and said: “How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.” He wanted to be taken back, if only as the lowest of his father’s servants. So he returned…and “while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” His father was not willing that his son be his servant; he would unconditionally take him back as his son once more. There are, of course, several lessons there.
But the similarity to Hosea 2 is what struck me recently. Hosea, after marrying a prostitute as directed by God and giving her all she could want, experienced the continual betrayal and shame of an unfaithful spouse; this, of course, illustrates God’s relationship with His People. In the second chapter (after a few verses that may serve as a reminder of God’s justice), God shows, I think, the Heart behind the punishments/trails/difficulties His creatures face. God demonstrates that His end-goal is always the redemption of those lost, the forgiveness and reconciliation with those who willfully abuse His Love and Holiness. Right after saying He will punish His unfaithful spouse, in short because she forgot Him and turned to other lovers, He states unequivocally that He won’t leave it at that. He also, as I stated above, at least hints that those punishments are sent in order to turn her away from dependence on other lovers…He wants her to reach rock-bottom (as did the prodigal son) so that she will turn to Him, the “one who gave her the grain, the new wine and oil, who lavished on her the silver and gold,” her One True Hope (v.8). This is what He says in v.14ff:
“Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her. There I will give her back her vineyards…There she will sing as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt. "In that day," declares the LORD, "you will call Me ‘my husband’; you will no longer call Me ‘my master.’”
The prodigal son’s father refused to consider his son a servant; the Lord refuses to let His bride see Him as master. God as Lover and God as Father, these identities never supersede God as King, but they go hand in hand…and we far too often ignore these expressions of God’s holy love. But really what strikes me is that difficult-to-describe quality of God’s love for us…what seems like humility at first glance, a crazily unassuming ability to accept a response from us that is one iota short of being forced, but what is, I think, ultimately an expression of the supreme self-confidence and independence of God. He does not love us out of any inherent need; unlike us, His love (though ever for His Glory) is something extended purely, not from a grasping need for wholeness—for He is always Whole—but out of the overflow of His Love for Himself. We unavoidably needy, dependent (we were made that way) and, of course, fallen creatures find it difficult to love when there is no benefit to us, no semblance of worthiness in the object of our love, no real indication from our beloved that they would choose us on their own. God, both as Father and as Husband/Lover/LORD, forgets our sins when we are no longer lost, and His joy overflows into blessings for us, in spite of the fact that He must rescue us from the depraved state of our own rebellion against Him, in spite of the fact we tend to frantically seek an escape when He closes in with His Love, in spite of the fact of what it cost Him.
Incidentally, I think this is where one of the problematic issues of Catholicism comes in; God is not a God of purgatory, Who saves from Hell yet nevertheless punishes after death for sins. He allures us back, He rushes down the road and celebrates our return. Maybe the idea of purgatory was fashioned out of a desire to show that sin is indeed grave, and to dissuade Christians from the idea of cheap grace—that, once saved, our sins are of no real account, for they are already paid for. But the idea of purgatory is in reality an affront to the true costliness of Grace: it is in fact because of the ultimate price our Salvation cost God that our sins are no longer counted against us, tossed as far away as the East is from the West, and we know that it is for freedom we have been set free. Purgatory seeks to make us pay part of the price of sin; nevertheless, Jesus’ Sacrifice was sufficient to pay the entirety of the price.
But that’s a tangent. And I have wandered far afield. It simply astounds me, the perfection of God’s Love. We love because He first loved us, and yet still we can’t quite follow His example; for while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. While we were sinners…prodigal sons, faithless prostitutes, persecutors of God’s people…God showed that, contrary to our expectations and upbringing, He still craved relationship with us. And not the relationship of master and servant, but a relationship founded on Love; and a craving not born out of need, but out of overflowing sufficiency. Our human expectations are that, if God takes us back, it is with conditions…but I think these two passages, one from the OT and one from the NT, show that God’s love overwhelms, that instead of hoops we need to jump through we need just turn to Him, no matter how much we have avoided Him in the past—and He’s actively involved in restoring that relationship all the while. And it should always be remembered—it is only through Christ that this is possible.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Seeking and Finding
What do I truly seek? That is the question foremost in my mind. For we generally find the things we seek, though all things but One we find other than we anticipated. And yet in that One Thing which we ought to seek (if we knew our duty and our desire best) we find room to experience all the other good things we might otherwise have sought. “Further up and further in” leads us not only to new heights, but to new breadths, as well; in a turned-upside-down kind of way, as we climb closer to the Summit we find not a peak but a vast and limitless tableland, where infinity awaits. Though the way is narrow and the gate small, the Destination is expansive…and though there is only One Way to the Father, in Jesus Christ (and in this way the gate is small), the Gate Himself is impossibly broad, too. For there are a host of choices that lead to destruction, and One that leads to Life: yet within that one choice, that one surrender, we find true freedom. It is in the bottleneck of yielding to Christ that we find life abundant, freedom that is really free, and ineffable potential. And, I believe, just as we are set free by coming to Christ, just as on the other side of Him it finally becomes true that “all roads lead to God” as we come to experience in small part His multifaceted and gloriously abundant Person…on the front side of coming to Christ, we can walk in many various ways, follow many various desires until He shreds away the dragonskin to reveal Himself within us. Christ is the Way; but the way to Christ, well, that may be somewhat more ambiguous.
Some come to Christ through their family, some through the Word, some by Reason or Wisdom (think C.S. Lewis, or perhaps Socrates), some through a particular experience. Some are seeking purpose, some are seeking healing, some are seeking Beauty, some a Father; others are seeking goodness, peace, answers, love, and the list goes on. Some even come through other religions; most, perhaps, come largely against their wills.
And after answering Christ’s call to Life? What then? What do we seek? Still a multitude of things, perhaps, both good and evil, as we learn to live according to His Spirit. Everything is permissible for us, though not everything beneficial—we never do all we ought, but how much is strictly determined by our sense of “ought to,” and how much by desire? Desire, I think, leads us to Christ…does it lead us onward ever-after? I imagine yes, even more so, it does. Yet the Christian still must shed some desires from his old life—and here’s the confusion, for in truth the Christian must shed every desire from his old life: and yet some of those desires, I think, are redeemed along with the individual and are a blueprint of how we should come to seek Christ. The same journeys of desire, once sanctified, continue onward to Heaven. Perhaps, perhaps not, but I believe it so. It is the misunderstanding of desires prior to conversion that is the problem, not the desires themselves; we are all, always, trying to fill that “God-shaped vacuum,” and so even pagan desires are at heart a hunger and thirst for the Creator. Once that vacuum is filled, it begins overflowing…and so are the deep desires that helped position one for the “filling” still relevant during the “overflowing”? I think so. Paul’s zeal for God, horribly misunderstood and misapplied before Christ, became a singular zeal to realize Christ in everything post-conversion. Lewis’s desire for knowledge and understanding and answers before Christ became a desire to share his passion and understanding of the wonderful truth of Christ with others. Sheldon Vanauken’s lifelong affair with beauty and the transcendent became, after Christ, a desire to better realize the true Beauty and Sublimity of God.
I began writing this just to get some thoughts in black and white, and I didn't intend to post them. Especially as they don't seem to be leading anywhere surprising or insightful. But, I suppose my curiosity concerns the familiar idea "Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you shall find." Also, I'm reading Lewis's "The Pilgrim's Regress," all about one's journey to knowing Christ. It seems to me that we either have trouble accepting the diverse, sometimes-tragic, often-beautiful, inexplicable complexity of how Christ calls and leads people to His feet (and how He leads them afterwards!), or we fail to stand firm on the absolute, without-exception necessity of surrender to Jesus in order to find a life of goodness, true purpose, love, and freedom. The most frustrating thing about living in a society prone to polarizations is that people honestly begin believing that you must choose "Either-or" when faced with two truths. Or maybe that comes with the territory of being finite creatures with finite understanding...in any event, I hope I learn to devotedly seek all that Christ calls me to, and not merely the essentials; it's always the case that He has more for us, not less.
Some come to Christ through their family, some through the Word, some by Reason or Wisdom (think C.S. Lewis, or perhaps Socrates), some through a particular experience. Some are seeking purpose, some are seeking healing, some are seeking Beauty, some a Father; others are seeking goodness, peace, answers, love, and the list goes on. Some even come through other religions; most, perhaps, come largely against their wills.
And after answering Christ’s call to Life? What then? What do we seek? Still a multitude of things, perhaps, both good and evil, as we learn to live according to His Spirit. Everything is permissible for us, though not everything beneficial—we never do all we ought, but how much is strictly determined by our sense of “ought to,” and how much by desire? Desire, I think, leads us to Christ…does it lead us onward ever-after? I imagine yes, even more so, it does. Yet the Christian still must shed some desires from his old life—and here’s the confusion, for in truth the Christian must shed every desire from his old life: and yet some of those desires, I think, are redeemed along with the individual and are a blueprint of how we should come to seek Christ. The same journeys of desire, once sanctified, continue onward to Heaven. Perhaps, perhaps not, but I believe it so. It is the misunderstanding of desires prior to conversion that is the problem, not the desires themselves; we are all, always, trying to fill that “God-shaped vacuum,” and so even pagan desires are at heart a hunger and thirst for the Creator. Once that vacuum is filled, it begins overflowing…and so are the deep desires that helped position one for the “filling” still relevant during the “overflowing”? I think so. Paul’s zeal for God, horribly misunderstood and misapplied before Christ, became a singular zeal to realize Christ in everything post-conversion. Lewis’s desire for knowledge and understanding and answers before Christ became a desire to share his passion and understanding of the wonderful truth of Christ with others. Sheldon Vanauken’s lifelong affair with beauty and the transcendent became, after Christ, a desire to better realize the true Beauty and Sublimity of God.
I began writing this just to get some thoughts in black and white, and I didn't intend to post them. Especially as they don't seem to be leading anywhere surprising or insightful. But, I suppose my curiosity concerns the familiar idea "Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you shall find." Also, I'm reading Lewis's "The Pilgrim's Regress," all about one's journey to knowing Christ. It seems to me that we either have trouble accepting the diverse, sometimes-tragic, often-beautiful, inexplicable complexity of how Christ calls and leads people to His feet (and how He leads them afterwards!), or we fail to stand firm on the absolute, without-exception necessity of surrender to Jesus in order to find a life of goodness, true purpose, love, and freedom. The most frustrating thing about living in a society prone to polarizations is that people honestly begin believing that you must choose "Either-or" when faced with two truths. Or maybe that comes with the territory of being finite creatures with finite understanding...in any event, I hope I learn to devotedly seek all that Christ calls me to, and not merely the essentials; it's always the case that He has more for us, not less.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Mythopoeia
Here's a poem that I found a while back, and can't quite get out of my head. And, seeing as I'm apparently too lazy to write a post now, I'll let the venerable J.R.R.T. supply the words for me. It's a response from him to C.S. Lewis, before Lewis was a Christian (while, of course, Tolkien was one). It lifts up some valuable ideas in our age of science-light and easy, relative "answers."
To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.
Philomythus to Misomythus
You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.
At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.
He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.
Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.
Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.
Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.
I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.
I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.
In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.
To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.
Philomythus to Misomythus
You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.
At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.
He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.
Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.
Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.
Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.
I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.
I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.
In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Probably WAY too long for my first official post
I’ve been thinking lately about the relationship between grace, faith, and works. The kick start of this recent process was probably a chapter in Timothy Stoner’s “The God Who Smokes,” about the interaction and mutually dependency of Righteousness and Justice. The chapter really made me reconsider the parable about the sheep and the goats—highlighting that when Jesus judged men He did so on the basis of what they had done, rather than what they said. This is a bit problematic for the particular strain of Protestantism I’ve been most familiar with over the years, one which minimizes the necessity of good works or actions of any kind in getting someone to heaven. This tradition sometimes explains away James 2 as saying that works are simply evidence of a saving faith…even though the passage clearly says that faith without works is, in fact, dead. Really, this tradition seems to be fairly central to Protestantism, as one issue Protested against was the Roman Catholic over-emphasis on works and penance and performing sacraments. But taken to extremes the Sola Fide doctrine can be misconstrued as implying that yes, doing good things, obedient things, is important because Christ said to…not because they are in fact an irremovable part of salvation. The following words suffer from a lot of repetition, this whole writing could be summarized quite concisely. But concise is not what I’m going for…I go over the same concept again and again to make it as clear as possible to both myself and whomever might read this.
However, it seems to me there has been, for apparently quite some time, an improper dichotomy created between faith and works. This is to the detriment of an appropriate appreciation for God’s part in salvation. The verses most central to this issue is a very familiar one: Ephesians 2:8-10 “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.”
A quick summary of the main points of these verses are that we are saved by God’s Grace, not by something good or worthwhile done by us—we have no room for pride; also, of course, after stating it is not by works that we are saved, Paul reminds us that we are in fact created to do good works. Some this distinction between God’s Grace and our works has been twisted to imply something along the lines of “instead of works, we have been saved by faith,” as if the two are not irrevocably united. Read the equally familiar Hebrews 11—faith and action go together (look especially at the cases of Abel, Noah, and Abraham…obedience goes hand in hand with faith). Paul stresses the distinction is to be made not between faith and works, but between grace and works.
James 2:17, 22, & 24, mentioned above, fits into this latter interpretation, but not the former—“In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead…You see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did…You see that a person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone.” A person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone. If Ephesians 2 suggested that we are saved by faith instead of works, James 2 couldn’t be true. But, as we are saved by grace, through a faith that is not of ourselves but rather dependent upon that grace, James 2 works fine. In light of James 2, Ephesians 2 seems to indicate that the central truth of salvation is God’s Grace; as a result of that Grace, God produces a faith that, leading to the good works that we are created for, reconciles us to Him.
I think that’s what “through faith” means; the Greek preposition dia, which simply means “through” or “on account of,” seems to hold no real complication. It does not mean by, it does not imply that we are saved as a result of faith; we are saved as a result of the gift of God that is Grace, and He simply chooses a faith accompanied with good works to be the context or method of the path of sanctification. There is also the verse earlier in James: (v. 1:27) “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” There’s something about what we do (that flows without exception from what we are made into by God’s grace) that is vital...this verse doesn’t mention belief, but rather action.
Back to the parable of the Sheep and the Goats in Matthew 25 which started this train of thought. The people referred to in this parable are not divided by what they profess or believe—but by what they did. (v.34-36) “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.” The line is drawn not based on belief, but action. It is not action that saves, but Jesus’ sheep do obey Him and do bear good fruit, do look after widows and orphans, and do act differently than those who do not belong to Him. It seems that our inheritance comes as much from “works” as “faith”…simply because neither in fact save, but are responses of saving Grace. Faith is more an evidence of grace than works are evidence of faith.
Sola Fide is not the way to the Father…but rather, Sola Gratia. For it is BY Grace that we are saved—manifested through a faith that obeys and takes action. Faith is never meant to be set against works, as many of us in the Reformed Tradition assume…the counterpoint of “works” is “Grace,” not “faith.” Through encouraging a false dichotomy between works and faith, we have perhaps missed much. We have sterilized our faith, removed it from the context of works within which it was first articulated. Think of Jesus’ healing of the paralytic in Mark 2…when the man’s friends lowered him through a hole in the roof, “Jesus saw their faith” and responded. Did He see their belief? No, He saw their actions, their desperation, which He understood was inextricably tied to their trust of God.
When Jesus reinstated Peter, where was His emphasis? On Peter’s love for Him, certainly, but in a tangible sense the emphasis was on what Peter did, or would do…“Feed My Sheep.” For, as Jesus said earlier, “If you love Me, you will obey what I command” (John 14:15). Branches aren’t pruned because of lack of belief, but rather because of unfruitfulness: “Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (Matthew 7:19). Jesus doesn’t emphasize action only a few times; He makes what we do (not just what we believe…even the demons believe the right things) the litmus test. This is found both in the aforementioned Parable of the Sheep and Goats, and elsewhere…such as this time when Jesus confronts the Pharisees (John 8: 39, 41): “If you were Abrahams children then you would do the things Abraham did…you are doing the things your own father does.” For just a few verses earlier He made the claim “If you hold to my teaching, you are really My disciples.” It’s not sufficient to agree with Jesus’ teaching…to be set free, one must do what He teaches. This is, once again, perhaps best expressed in the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats.
There are other examples of Jesus or His disciples maintaining the junction between faith and works (John 14:12 comes to mind: “I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing,” as does Romans 1:5). It is only His later followers who fashioned such a great divide between the two. Yet it seems clear that the point was never to emphasize faith at the sake of works, of obedience. The method espoused as our Justification is God’s Grace, and it is this Grace that is set against our works. That’s where the line is…between God-initiated Grace (embodied in the Sacrifice of His Son) and man-initiated attempts at salvation, self-adoration, and independence. Faith can even become a “work” (for willful choice, desperate surrender, and even intellectual assent have an element of action in them), and it is certainly integrated with action-oriented obedience (see Deuteronomy 11:13—“So if you faithfully obey the commands I am giving you today—to love the LORD your God and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul;” we obey through faith, our faith is nourished through obedience…). How else can we demand (or even advise) that someone “have faith,” “believe and be set free,” “put your faith in Him,” unless there is an element of choice (i.e., action) tied up in faith?
We are saved by Grace rather than works so that no man may boast…but men can just as easily boast in their faith. Many religious and spiritual problems come, I think, from an undue arrogance about our faith that goes something like this: “I believe and trust in the Truth, therefore I’m better than those who don’t believe.” Better off, certainly, but better? Only on account of God’s Grace, not your faith. If I place my trust in anyone or anything, I have acted, chosen, performed a work of the will. Faith in God is no different; the great Mystery comes in our being able to and willing to perform that act of faith (that paradoxical willful surrender of the will)…and this is by Grace. God enables us to have faith; He says “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). It is God’s Grace that enables us to approach him through faith, demonstrating works as we go, boasting in neither our actions nor our beliefs but only in the Lord, Who stooped down to lift us up.
I am not bound to God because I “chose” to believe or surrender (while surrender can be chosen, can one ever choose what to believe? Or only what to do with the beliefs one has?); I am bound to God by the integrity of Christ’s Blood washed over me by God’s choice. I believe there is a false strain in Protestant theological understanding…not an over-emphasis on faith, certainly, although perhaps an under-emphasis on works—yet, most importantly, an under-emphasis on Grace, placing it, as it were, side by side with faith when it belongs above both faith and works. For Grace is God’s domain stretched out to us—and both faith and works are Man’s domain stretched out to God; only one of these efforts have any saving potency.
Some of this may seem to imply or suggest a rather Calvinist picture of God’s will and choices being all that matters. That’s not my intention; I mean to say nothing about whether or not man’s will enters at all into salvation, whether grace is in fact irresistible or not. That’s a whole different discussion, and one which I think is far less clear. All I claim is the well-established truth that God initiates salvation, and this is by His Grace alone. Whatever the relationship between faith and works, they exist on the same plane, one subject to and inferior to the position of grace. Whatever role faith and works have in salvation, that salvation owes its process first and foremost to grace. Also…whatever our beliefs, however strongly we profess our faith, we are not excused from good works. We cannot earn our salvation, neither by what we do or what we claim to believe; it is ever and always an unearned gift of God that far outweighs any response we can make. Sola Fide is a fine cry…but Sola Gratia gives credit where credit is due.
However, it seems to me there has been, for apparently quite some time, an improper dichotomy created between faith and works. This is to the detriment of an appropriate appreciation for God’s part in salvation. The verses most central to this issue is a very familiar one: Ephesians 2:8-10 “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.”
A quick summary of the main points of these verses are that we are saved by God’s Grace, not by something good or worthwhile done by us—we have no room for pride; also, of course, after stating it is not by works that we are saved, Paul reminds us that we are in fact created to do good works. Some this distinction between God’s Grace and our works has been twisted to imply something along the lines of “instead of works, we have been saved by faith,” as if the two are not irrevocably united. Read the equally familiar Hebrews 11—faith and action go together (look especially at the cases of Abel, Noah, and Abraham…obedience goes hand in hand with faith). Paul stresses the distinction is to be made not between faith and works, but between grace and works.
James 2:17, 22, & 24, mentioned above, fits into this latter interpretation, but not the former—“In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead…You see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did…You see that a person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone.” A person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone. If Ephesians 2 suggested that we are saved by faith instead of works, James 2 couldn’t be true. But, as we are saved by grace, through a faith that is not of ourselves but rather dependent upon that grace, James 2 works fine. In light of James 2, Ephesians 2 seems to indicate that the central truth of salvation is God’s Grace; as a result of that Grace, God produces a faith that, leading to the good works that we are created for, reconciles us to Him.
I think that’s what “through faith” means; the Greek preposition dia, which simply means “through” or “on account of,” seems to hold no real complication. It does not mean by, it does not imply that we are saved as a result of faith; we are saved as a result of the gift of God that is Grace, and He simply chooses a faith accompanied with good works to be the context or method of the path of sanctification. There is also the verse earlier in James: (v. 1:27) “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” There’s something about what we do (that flows without exception from what we are made into by God’s grace) that is vital...this verse doesn’t mention belief, but rather action.
Back to the parable of the Sheep and the Goats in Matthew 25 which started this train of thought. The people referred to in this parable are not divided by what they profess or believe—but by what they did. (v.34-36) “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.” The line is drawn not based on belief, but action. It is not action that saves, but Jesus’ sheep do obey Him and do bear good fruit, do look after widows and orphans, and do act differently than those who do not belong to Him. It seems that our inheritance comes as much from “works” as “faith”…simply because neither in fact save, but are responses of saving Grace. Faith is more an evidence of grace than works are evidence of faith.
Sola Fide is not the way to the Father…but rather, Sola Gratia. For it is BY Grace that we are saved—manifested through a faith that obeys and takes action. Faith is never meant to be set against works, as many of us in the Reformed Tradition assume…the counterpoint of “works” is “Grace,” not “faith.” Through encouraging a false dichotomy between works and faith, we have perhaps missed much. We have sterilized our faith, removed it from the context of works within which it was first articulated. Think of Jesus’ healing of the paralytic in Mark 2…when the man’s friends lowered him through a hole in the roof, “Jesus saw their faith” and responded. Did He see their belief? No, He saw their actions, their desperation, which He understood was inextricably tied to their trust of God.
When Jesus reinstated Peter, where was His emphasis? On Peter’s love for Him, certainly, but in a tangible sense the emphasis was on what Peter did, or would do…“Feed My Sheep.” For, as Jesus said earlier, “If you love Me, you will obey what I command” (John 14:15). Branches aren’t pruned because of lack of belief, but rather because of unfruitfulness: “Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (Matthew 7:19). Jesus doesn’t emphasize action only a few times; He makes what we do (not just what we believe…even the demons believe the right things) the litmus test. This is found both in the aforementioned Parable of the Sheep and Goats, and elsewhere…such as this time when Jesus confronts the Pharisees (John 8: 39, 41): “If you were Abrahams children then you would do the things Abraham did…you are doing the things your own father does.” For just a few verses earlier He made the claim “If you hold to my teaching, you are really My disciples.” It’s not sufficient to agree with Jesus’ teaching…to be set free, one must do what He teaches. This is, once again, perhaps best expressed in the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats.
There are other examples of Jesus or His disciples maintaining the junction between faith and works (John 14:12 comes to mind: “I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing,” as does Romans 1:5). It is only His later followers who fashioned such a great divide between the two. Yet it seems clear that the point was never to emphasize faith at the sake of works, of obedience. The method espoused as our Justification is God’s Grace, and it is this Grace that is set against our works. That’s where the line is…between God-initiated Grace (embodied in the Sacrifice of His Son) and man-initiated attempts at salvation, self-adoration, and independence. Faith can even become a “work” (for willful choice, desperate surrender, and even intellectual assent have an element of action in them), and it is certainly integrated with action-oriented obedience (see Deuteronomy 11:13—“So if you faithfully obey the commands I am giving you today—to love the LORD your God and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul;” we obey through faith, our faith is nourished through obedience…). How else can we demand (or even advise) that someone “have faith,” “believe and be set free,” “put your faith in Him,” unless there is an element of choice (i.e., action) tied up in faith?
We are saved by Grace rather than works so that no man may boast…but men can just as easily boast in their faith. Many religious and spiritual problems come, I think, from an undue arrogance about our faith that goes something like this: “I believe and trust in the Truth, therefore I’m better than those who don’t believe.” Better off, certainly, but better? Only on account of God’s Grace, not your faith. If I place my trust in anyone or anything, I have acted, chosen, performed a work of the will. Faith in God is no different; the great Mystery comes in our being able to and willing to perform that act of faith (that paradoxical willful surrender of the will)…and this is by Grace. God enables us to have faith; He says “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). It is God’s Grace that enables us to approach him through faith, demonstrating works as we go, boasting in neither our actions nor our beliefs but only in the Lord, Who stooped down to lift us up.
I am not bound to God because I “chose” to believe or surrender (while surrender can be chosen, can one ever choose what to believe? Or only what to do with the beliefs one has?); I am bound to God by the integrity of Christ’s Blood washed over me by God’s choice. I believe there is a false strain in Protestant theological understanding…not an over-emphasis on faith, certainly, although perhaps an under-emphasis on works—yet, most importantly, an under-emphasis on Grace, placing it, as it were, side by side with faith when it belongs above both faith and works. For Grace is God’s domain stretched out to us—and both faith and works are Man’s domain stretched out to God; only one of these efforts have any saving potency.
Some of this may seem to imply or suggest a rather Calvinist picture of God’s will and choices being all that matters. That’s not my intention; I mean to say nothing about whether or not man’s will enters at all into salvation, whether grace is in fact irresistible or not. That’s a whole different discussion, and one which I think is far less clear. All I claim is the well-established truth that God initiates salvation, and this is by His Grace alone. Whatever the relationship between faith and works, they exist on the same plane, one subject to and inferior to the position of grace. Whatever role faith and works have in salvation, that salvation owes its process first and foremost to grace. Also…whatever our beliefs, however strongly we profess our faith, we are not excused from good works. We cannot earn our salvation, neither by what we do or what we claim to believe; it is ever and always an unearned gift of God that far outweighs any response we can make. Sola Fide is a fine cry…but Sola Gratia gives credit where credit is due.
Another attempt at blogging
So, I've just created this new blog; I had a blogspot page from years ago, but in general i failed at actually posting stuff. Then I had a myspace page, which I used pretty much exclusively for the blog on it...even that became out of date. The moral of the story: I've been affected yet again with a desire to have an online journal/blog sort of thing, and instead of bringing my myspace up to date I decided to actually use a page intended for blogging. This decision was perhaps encouraged by me forgetting my myspace password, and not caring enough to figure it out.
Anyway, I may try to retroactively post some of my previous blog entries from myspace, just to consolidate...plus, I have this subtle impulse towards thoroughness. It's perhaps why I don't really finish a lot of things. Even if I don't do that...this will be where I'll post my probably infrequent written musings.
Anyway, I may try to retroactively post some of my previous blog entries from myspace, just to consolidate...plus, I have this subtle impulse towards thoroughness. It's perhaps why I don't really finish a lot of things. Even if I don't do that...this will be where I'll post my probably infrequent written musings.
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