God's own fool, part II

(I was originally intending just one more post on this, but now I think it will work better as two separate posts.)

The following is an actual ad placed in an Irish newspaper some years ago: “1985 Blue Volkswagen Golf. Only 15 km; only 1 driver. Only first gear and reverse used. Never driven hard. Original tires; original brakes. Original fuel and oil. Owner wishing to sell due to employment lay-off.” Sound a little odd? Take a look at the picture.

The conventional wisdom is, you need a car . . . Sometimes, though, following the conventional wisdom is a pretty foolish thing to do. Conversely, sometimes those the conventional wisdom calls foolish aren’t fools at all. Sometimes they’re actually three steps ahead of the rest of us. Take the example of Fred Smith, the founder of Federal Express and the man who created the overnight delivery which we now take for granted. He first proposed this in a paper when he was a student at Yale University; the professor gave him a C, telling Smith that his idea was interesting but couldn’t be done. Smith went ahead and did it anyway, even though a Ph.D. had told him he was foolish. We know who was right.

The thing is, the world just isn't as wise as it thinks it is, and so sometimes you have to be willing to be a fool in order to get anywhere. Which might sound like a truism, but it’s an important thing to remember. Even in the church, too often we get caught up in the conventional wisdom about life, and when that happens we start to judge the gospel by the standards of the world’s wisdom, or to try to make it fit with what we consider wise. The problem with that is that it's a demand that God play by our rules, and he's just not going to honor that; he's not going to conform the truth to our idea of wisdom. The gospel is not wisdom by any human standard—it is a contradiction to human wisdom.

God’s foolishness begins with a crucified Messiah. Many of us have gotten used to this, as Easter goes by every year, but if you really stop to think about it, it's crazy. As the great New Testament scholar Gordon Fee put it, “No mere human, in his or her right mind or otherwise, would ever have dreamed up God’s scheme for redemption—through a crucified Messiah. It is too preposterous, too humiliating, for a God.” Put another way, no self-respecting God would put himself through something like that—becoming human, sharing all the unpleasant and messy parts of life, and then submitting to be tortured to death—and for what? For us? Surely that’s beneath God’s dignity, isn’t it? Yes, it is; no self-respecting God would do a thing like that—which tells us something very important about God: he will never let his dignity get in the way of his love for us.

If the whole idea of a crucified Messiah is God’s foolishness, then surely Jesus was God’s designated fool; and for all that we tend to think of him as a great wise man and a great teacher, he made a lot of those around him think he was a fool, or worse. It wasn’t long into his ministry before Jesus had convinced his family that he was insane, and the priests that he was possessed by Satan himself. After all, he just didn’t act like a normal person, and his teaching challenged almost everything the religious leaders taught, in one way or another. He upset people’s expectations, and sometimes their furniture; and when he started to explain things to his disciples, it only upset them, too.

Jesus just wasn’t what anyone was looking for. The Jews knew what Messiah would look like; he would come with signs of God’s power and lead his people out of their captivity, just as Moses had done so long before. The Greeks, on the other hand, being the philosophical types, had their systems and divided the world into all its appropriate boxes; they were looking for a perfectly reasonable God who fit their system, who fit into their boxes. Both were sure they had God all figured out; to both, the idea of a crucified God was scandalous—indeed, it was insane.

And yet, it was through this crazy plan—and this equally crazy Messiah—that God saved the world. It wasn’t through any of our own work or our own wisdom that God saved us, not even the best we could offer; in his own wisdom, God saw to that. Though this all looks foolish to the unaided eye, God’s foolishness outsmarts our wisdom. Christ’s crucifixion, the ultimate act of powerlessness, is the ultimate act of God’s power; his crucifixion, which is complete foolishness to those who are lost, is the ultimate act of his wisdom. We don’t have the choice to look for some wiser way, because there isn’t one; we can only trust God and be saved by his wise foolishness, or cling to our own wisdom and be lost.

God's Own Fool

OK, so this one is Erin's fault; I got along exploring her blog after her response (which I very much appreciated) to the meme I started, and ran across her post on foolishness and God. Apparently it's part of a synchroblog that she and some other folks have going; but while I might not resonate with this in the same way as they do, this is something with which I resonate powerfully nonetheless. It begins with Jesus, God's designated Fool; and it ends with us, his designated fools. I'll talk about that tomorrow. For now, I want to let Michael Card do the talking, because I've always loved this song.

God's Own Fool

It seems I've imagined Him all of my life
As the wisest of all of mankind;
But if God's holy wisdom is foolish to men,
He must have seemed out of His mind.
For even His family said He was mad,
And the priests said, "A demon's to blame";
But God in the form of this angry young man
Could not have seemed perfectly sane.

When we in our foolishness thought we were wise,
He played the fool and He opened our eyes;
When we in our weakness believed we were strong,
He became helpless to show we were wrong.
And so we follow God's own fool,
For only the foolish can tell;
Believe the unbelievable—
Come, be a fool as well.

So come lose your life for a carpenter's son,
For a madman who died for a dream,
And you'll have the faith His first followers had,
And you'll feel the weight of the beam.
So surrender the hunger to say you must know,
Have the courage to say, "I believe,"
For the power of paradox opens your eyes
And blinds those who say they can see.

Chorus

Words and music: Michael Card
© 1985 Mole End Music
From the album Scandalon, by Michael Card

More tomorrow.

Gospel witness

Barry's post today on evangelism got me thinking. Evangelism has gotten a bad rap with a lot of people thanks to the high-pressure approach of a few—the sort of folks who grab random strangers, stick a half-dozen Scripture verses in their ear, badger them into saying a certain prayer, stuff a tract in their pocket, and walk off confident they’ve “saved another soul.” I’m sure God can use that; after all, God used Jacob, he used Jonah, he used Peter—who am I to say God can’t use anybody or anything. But what we tend to forget is that in Acts 1, Jesus didn't say, “You will do witnessing,” he said, “You will be my witnesses.” Our call as Christians isn’t to “save souls” in that sense, but to share the life Jesus has given us with the people around us; and we aren’t called to witness to Jesus just by memorizing some spiel, we’re called to be his witnesses by the way we live our lives. As St. Francis of Assisi put it, “Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.”

Now, the downside at this point is that we often don’t hear this correctly; we have the tendency to mentally translate this into “I don’t have to tell people about Jesus, I just have to go out and live my life and that’s good enough.” Well, yes and no, sort of. Go back to that quote from St. Francis and think about this for a minute: “Preach the gospel at all times.” That’s the standard: our lives are to be sermons on the word of God, backed up by our words. Our call as disciples of Christ is to go out into the world and live in it as he did—talking with others about our Father in heaven, and just as importantly, showing his love to those around us in every way we can think of. We are called to do the work he did: to feed the hungry; to care for the sick; to welcome the outsider; to defend the oppressed; to lift up the downtrodden; to love the unlovable; to break down the barriers between race and class and gender; and to speak the truth so clearly and unflinchingly, when the opportunity arises, that people want to kill us for it.

Bumper-sticker geopolitics

I saw a bumper sticker today that caught my attention: "You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war." It made me wish I had the person who owned that car there to talk with, to ask them one question: Why? This isn't a truism, after all, something that can simply be presented as inarguable; and while I suppose it might be presented as a dictum that impresses by the force of its truth, I don't find it so. Rather, this is an assertion which needs to be supported with logic and evidence; if it is so, it needs to be proven.

To be honest, I don't think it can be—I think the study of history is very much against this proposition. To be sure, there are times when efforts to prepare for war undermine or even negate efforts to prevent it (World War I would be the classic case in point); but given the reality throughout history of aggressive expansionistic powers which tend to treat countries unprepared for war as hors d'oeuvres—which does at least make for short wars, I'll grant—there are clearly many cases in which failing to prepare for war makes war inevitable. (Just ask Neville Chamberlain.)

The bottom line here, I think, is that war (like most major human undertakings) is complex, and neither the factors that cause it nor the strategies for preventing it can be summarized and dismissed in a bumper sticker. That sort of simplistic thinking does no one any good.

Songs of the week, for Hap

This is prefatory to a post or three on Pope Benedict XVI's latest encyclical, which has gotten me thinking about hope, and faith. That in turn, though, along with a conversation with Hap, got me thinking about these songs, so I decided to post them.

Come In

If you're standing next to someone
Who doesn't know your name,
Come in, pull up a chair;
You and me, we are the same.

This is the palace of the thinkers, dreamers, in-betweeners,
The broken record-players hearing something in this music;
Here the wind blows softly, carrying a note forever,
Cradling the melody of hope.

If you're screaming in the dark
And no one hears your voice,
Welcome to this whole new world of sound;
Come in, friend, sit down.

Chorus

Oh, it's the atmosphere of truth
With an offering of peace;
Under your flesh of withered pride,
So many broken dreams,
Fallen man and other things . . .

If you're reaching out to no one
And holding in a smile,
Come in and know your name;
Oh, friend, I'm listening.

Chorus

Words and music: Sarah Masen
© 1996 River Oaks Music/Andi Beat Goes On Music
From the album sarah masen, by Sarah Masen

Hope Like a Stranger

Hope, like a stranger, came to my door;
I was afraid, I was rude—"What are you coming here for?
Have you come to stay, or are you just passing through?
I've seen your face, but I do not know you."
He said, "You know me, but I've had to remain
Hidden in the shadows of your sorrow and pain,
For you have lived your life as a slave, so it seems,
Believing your nightmares instead of your dreams."

Hope, like a stranger, posed a question like a dare:
"Can you mask the mysteries of your heart, pretending not to care?
For the thing that you dismissed with your cynical façade
Was the hope you'd been given from the very heart of God.
And it drove you in secret, but you held it close at bay,
And you tried to disown me, but you're not made to be that way;
So I stand here longing, for no matter where you run
I will wait like the Father of the Prodigal Son."

He said, "Hope, by itself, it can never be an end—
It's like holding paper money that's impossible to spend.
Unless the value is a given, the bargain's incomplete."
Then he showed me the scars on his hands and his feet.
I touched his wounds as I steadied my nerve;
He said, "I only bear the marks of the Master I serve,
And He sends me here to tell you I am bound up with Him.
You'd do well, when he comes, to also let Him in."

Hope, like a stranger, came to my door;
But he's risen and he stays a stranger no more.

Words and music: Bob Bennett
© 1991 Bright Avenue Songs
From the album Here on Bright Avenue, by Bob Bennett

Hope

We'll be taking off our clothes to sing;
We'll be wearing our own skin.
We'll be taking off a whole lot more
Just so we can sing,
Just so we can sing.

Hope is coming out tonight,
Knocking at the door.
You've got to let that stranger in,
Looking at your soul,
Looking at your soul.

A peeling and a shedding mind,
Changing what we're worth—
Blessed are the meek, somehow;
They're taking in the earth,
Taking in the earth.

And all this talk of love and peace
And wanting something true—
Well, peace can cut the rope sometimes
That's holding on to me and you,
Holding on to me and you.

Chorus

No sentimental bags of gold
To occupy the hurt;
It's knowing what the demons sold
When falling to the earth,
When falling to the earth.

Now I'm stretching out across the land,
Trying my best to understand
While fear is barking like a dog,
But I'm holding out my hand,
Still holding out my hands.

Chorus

Standing in the cold,
Looking at your soul.

Words and music: Sarah Masen
© 2001 Dayspring Music, Inc.
From the album The Dreamlife of Angels, by Sarah Masen

Anniversary of a miracle

Today marks the 67th anniversary of a miracle—one which Michael Linton, writing in First Things some time ago, suggested is "the greatest artistic miracle of our times." On January 15, 1941, in the Nazi POW camp Stalag VIII-A at Görlitz in Silesia, the great French Catholic composer Olivier Messiaen, a prisoner in the camp, premiered his Quatuor pour la fin du temps ("Quartet for the end of time"). Messiaen, who had been given time, space, and resources by the camp commandant to enable him to write, composed the quartet for himself (on piano) and three other musicians among the prisoners, a violinist, a cellist, and a clarinetist.

What makes the work miraculous is not only the place and time in which it was written, but its character. As Linton writes:

In the midst of chaos, Messiaen wrote about the apocalypse in a completely "unapocalyptic" manner. In the previous century, the sequence from the Requiem Mass had given composers the opportunity to unleash all the thunder they could muster to depict the horrific details of God’s day of accounting. Berlioz and Verdi had both written depictions that chill—or more honestly perhaps, thrill—us to this day. And not too long after Messiaen’s quartet was completed, Schoenberg, Shostakovich, Britten, and Penderecki would write pieces expressive of the horrors of the Nazis and their war, music full of screams, howls, and cries for righteous justice against the oppressor.

But Messiaen has no place for such neo-pagan hysterics. In the middle of a prison camp, a prisoner unsure if he would ever again see his family or home again, Messiaen composed a vision of heaven where anger, violence, vengeance, and despair are not so much repressed as irrelevant. This work has nothing to do with war, or prison, or "man’s inhumanity to man." This piece is entirely about the work of God and the glory of Jesus. There is no darkness here. There is no bitterness. There is no rage. Instead there is power, light, transcendence, ecstasy, and joy eternal.

Messiaen's music isn't everyone's cup of tea, by any means—it's modern music, for one thing, and then it's modern in a different way from most of the music of this past century; but this is a beautiful and powerful piece that deserves to be appreciated. I'm not going to put all of it up (it's a fairly long composition, in eight movements), but here's a taste or two. This is a video of the first movement, "Liturgie de cristal":



Here's the fourth movement, "Intermède":



And the fifth, "Louange à l'Éternité de Jésus":

It's great music, even if it isn't to everyone's taste; but just as much, and something we can all appreciate, it's a powerful testimony to the way in which the love and the grace of God can overcome human evil.

The fantasy of the Real

I am, and have been for many years, a fan of fantasy and science fiction. Fortunately for me, as an English major, I attended a college with an English department that was generally open to such things, without too many professors who drew a distinction between "“genre fiction” and “real literature.” (I could go off on a rant about how “literary fiction” is just another genre, and indeed one of the more rulebound, hidebound and unprofitable ones, but . . . some other time.) I appreciated that at the time because it meant I didn't have to feel put down (very often) for my reading preferences; over the years, I've come to appreciate it even more as I've come to realize just how constraining the standard academic view of literature really is. John W. Campbell, Jr., founding father of modern science fiction, famously argued that science fiction is the only real literature because it alone encompasses all possible pasts, presents and futures (and thus includes all literature); I think his conclusion is overblown, but he has a point.

It seems to me that what distinguishes real literature from efforts which don't rise to that level is that real literature opens our eyes, our minds, our ears, and our hearts—it helps us to see, hear, and understand people, including ourselves, for who we are, and our world for what it is. The thing about science fiction, moving forward and backward along the axis of time (including onto the parallel tracks of alternate history), and fantasy, moving sideways along the axis of alternate worlds, is that they offer far more angles from which to do this. Indeed, by adopting an “unreal” setting, I think they make it easier for us to see and understand our world and ourselves more deeply than we can within a “realistic" frame of reference. (The flip side to this would be the way in which “reality shows” are the most unreal things on television.)

Now, I've been convinced of this for a long time, and in the process I've learned a lot of good theology from fantasy writers like C. S. Lewis (no surprise), J. R. R. Tolkien (ditto), and Stephen R. Donaldson (which might be a little more unexpected); but it's not a case I've heard many people make. Now, however, along has come Alison Milbank with her book Chesterton and Tolkien As Theologians: The Fantasy of the Real to explore the truth of this in the work of these two great English Catholic writers. I can't comment directly on the book, since even on Amazon, it's going for $93.60, and that just isn't in the budget right now; but from the review Ralph Wood wrote for the First Things website (in “On the Square”), I'm very much looking forward to reading it. In Chesterton and Tolkien (among others), we are caught by the understanding that the world is more real, and high and beautiful and perilous and terrible, than our senses tell us it is; and from what Wood has to say, Milbank captures this well.

Both writers resorted to fantasy as an escape into reality, as Tolkien liked to say. They were fascinated with fairies because Elfland, as Chesterton called it, enabled them to envision the world as wondrously magical no less than terribly contingent: as “utterly real and enchanted at one and the same time.” Whereas conventional Christian apologists often cast theological stones at the obduracy of atheists and materialists, Tolkien and Chesterton answer them with dwarves and ents.

Beautiful. I look forward to reading this book.

Exactly what we don't need

Hillary Clinton's win in the New Hampshire Democratic primary, when polling leading up to the vote had Barack Obama leading by double digits, sent even the best and most respected political commentators (such as Howard Fineman) scrambling to explain what happened. It also, unfortunately, sent conspiracy theorists scrambling; it's sad that we can't have a close contest anymore without someone screaming it was rigged, but so it goes. Of course, when it's just conspiracy theorists, you can ignore them; but now, Democratic presidential (sort of) candidate Dennis Kucinich is calling for a recount. I'm not sure what to make of Kucinich doing this, since it's certainly not going to help his candidacy—either he's gunning for a slot in an Obama administration, or his loopiness includes a certain loopy integrity, because this isn't going to help his popularity with the Democratic party leadership, either—but there's no question, it gives the idea that there might have been irregularities in the NH primary a certain legitimacy.

And all I can say is, dear God, please let it not be so. Obviously, I have no intention of voting for whoever the Democratic candidate is this November—anyone looking through this blog should have a pretty clear idea where my political positions fall on the spectrum—and I suppose one might look at this and say, anything that hurts the Democrats is good. If Sen. Clinton's campaign really did steal the NH primary, which is what Rep. Kucinich is essentially saying, I can't see how that wouldn't hurt the Democrats; from a cynical point of view, then, I suppose one might hope it turns out that way. But I just can't do that, because if this is true, the damage is far, far greater to our political process. To operate properly, democratic/republican politics depends on a certain level of trust and mutual commitment to the process, and that's strained enough in this country as it is; if these allegations are true, it's another major body blow to that trust, and to that commitment to playing by the rules, and America really can't afford that. Especially not right now.

Besides, as much as I don't particularly care for Sen. Clinton, I do believe in her idealism, or at least that she once was an idealist; I think her hunger for power is real, but I also think that it's largely rooted in the desire to do good for her country, or at least that it started out that way. I would truly, deeply hate to believe that she has fallen so far that she, or anyone else in her campaign, could actually do something like that.

"Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Great men are almost always bad men."

—Lord Acton

If you like good stories

keep an eye out for Noah Farlee. Heather McDougal at Cabinet of Wonders met him, I'm not sure where, and has a splendid post up about him; at 16, he's already a fresh, original, creative, and truly interesting storyteller. (Check out his short story "Giskard the Genius"—warning, it's a PDF file, because it's graphic fiction, not merely text—and you'll see what I mean.) I also appreciate this statement of his: "With Giskard, I wanted to prove that you could still tell a story for a story's sake. I wanted a story that was enjoyable to people of any age, instead of just 'acceptable' for all ages. No gritty violence, no brooding main characters or political commentary, but also no distracting morals or nauseating innocence. Just plain clean fun." That's a worthy goal, I'd say, if you can pull it off—and especially if you're honestly funny enough. This guy can, and he is, and I look forward to seeing what he comes up with next.

Spiritual discipline?

So my friend Wayne credits me, among others, with "helping me to view blogging as in many ways a spiritual discipline for the 21st century"; and that started me thinking, because it had never occurred to me to consider it that way. Dallas Willard, in his classic book The Spirit of the Disciplines, has this to say about them:

We can, through faith and grace, become like Christ by practicing the types of activities he engaged in, by arranging our whole lives around the activities he himself practiced in order to remain constantly at home in the fellowship of his Father. . . . When we call men and women to life in Christ Jesus, we are offering them the greatest opportunity of their lives—the opportunity of a vivid companionship with him, in which they will learn to be like him and live as he lived. This is that "transforming fellowship" explained by Leslie Weatherhead. We meet and dwell with Jesus and his Father in the disciplines for the spiritual life.

We could also say that spiritual disciplines are practices in which we engage in order "to cultivate our daily lives into fertile ground in which God can bring growth and change"; practicing the disciplines forms and shapes our lives much as the farmer forms and shapes the soil, clearing away unhelpful growth and carving the ground into furrows that will receive the seed and the rain, so that the crop will grow.

Now, I could go on and talk about the role and importance of spiritual disciplines such as silence and solitude, prayer and fasting in actually living the life to which Christ calls us; but what I'm wondering is, does blogging really belong on that list? Not that blogging is automatically a spiritual discipline—but then, none of the disciplines are automatic. You have to be, well, disciplined about them. The question is, granted that we can blog unspiritually just as we can pray unspiritually, can we really use blogging as a discipline for spiritual growth?

It's a question I'd never thought about before; but I think we can. What's more, I think this is something those of us who are Christians who blog need to consider seriously and carefully. That being so, though I haven't been a meme-y sort, I'd like to pose it to you as a meme:

In what ways can you use blogging as a spiritual discipline?

For myself, the first thing I'd have to confess is that I often don't. Granted, I never have on a conscious level; but the thing about spiritual disciplines, properly understood, is that they aren't just something we do, they're something to which we submit. If, for instance, your prayers are merely a litany of your own arguments and opinions and requests, with no room in them for anyone but yourself, that's not a spiritual discipline, because there's no space in there for you to be changed. Similarly, if all I do in blogging is assert my own ideas and contentions, whatever the value of those ideas might be, it's not a spiritual discipline; someone else might be formed by that, but I certainly won't be. It seems, then, that in using blogging as a spiritual discipline, a key element has to be receptivity.

Given that, then, and given the natural tendency of human beings to want to challenge others without challenging ourselves, my first thought is this: blogging can help me see the gaps between what I live and what I believe. Put another way, one spiritual discipline for me in blogging is to apply my beliefs and their implications not only to the lives of others out there in the culture, but also to myself and my own life. If I say x, and that means someone else ought to change and to live differently, how does it mean that I need to change and live differently? It's an important question, and one that blogging as a discipline can force me to face.

That's one thought, and certainly not the only one; I'd like to hear what others have to say. If you happen to come across this post, I'd like to challenge you to think about this question, and answer it for yourself. To start the ball rolling, I'm specifically tagging Wayne (of course), Hap (ditto), and Dave Moody at blog 137. You three, and whoever will, I ask to do the following:

1. Answer the question on your own blog. (If you don't have one and would like to chew on this anyway, please do so in the comments on this post.)

2. Keep this going--tag a friend or three.

3. Come back and post a comment here to let me know you've responded, and where to find your response. I would very much like to see what others have to say on this.

Thanks.

Huck rock

I'm surprised I haven't seen anything on the Thinklings yet about this—I really expected Quaid to be all over it—but Mike Huckabee rocked Leno last night. Literally.

I should note, I only tripped across his appearance, since I've been pretty sick and haven't been following much of anything the last week or two; I knew Law & Order's season premiere (which also rocked, btw) was last night, though, so I watched that, and thus saw the ads for Leno's return, and Huckabee's appearance. I was interested to see what Leno would have to say about the writers' strike, and just as interested to see Huckabee, so I stayed up to watch.

I was quite impressed. Of course, as I've noted here earlier, I'd already been worked around to supporting Huckabee, so it's not like I was predisposed against him; but still, as compared to a guy like Fred Dalton Thompson, or other pols I've seen on Leno, Huckabee seemed very natural and relaxed, poised but at his ease. He talked very freely and naturally about his faith and some of his policy positions—among other things, he made hands-down the best case I've ever heard for replacing the national income tax with a national sales tax, an idea about which I'm now actually somewhat less dubious than I was; he also talked about his decision not to go negative on Romney in Iowa and told some of his own story, including his early rock-and-roll ambitions. At that point, Leno asked him, "Are you good enough to play with the band?" and he answered, "No, but I'd like to anyway"—and when they came back from the commercial break, there he was on bass guitar, next to Kevin Eubanks. Granted, it was a pretty standard walk-it-up bass riff, nothing real challenging, but still, it was obvious that he and everyone else was having a grand old time; he got a high-five from Eubanks as he headed back to the couch.

All in all, I have to think Mike Huckabee won himself some votes last night; I suspect there are also a number of us out there who are rather more firmly in his camp now than we were. Not a bad night's work, Governor; not a bad night's work at all.

Song for the Christmas season

I don't care for most Christmas songs written during the last century or so, but there are exceptions; this year, we received a copy of Carolyn Arends' Christmas: An Irrational Season, and added a few more to the list. This one's my favorite, I think.

Come and See

Have you heard, have you heard,
All the rumors are true.
Spread the word, spread the word,
This is such good news:
The dream is not a dream anymore;
Nothing is the same as before.

Come and see, come and see,
He is lying in the straw;
He's a new baby boy
Who's the hope of us all.
Come and hear, come and hear—
It's a sound both sweet and strange:
It's the great love of God
In the cry of a babe.
It's the great love of God
In the cry of a babe.

See the star, see the star,
It will light our way;
Hear the song, hear the song,
Hurry to the place,
'Cause if his mama says that it's alright,
We can see the face of God tonight.

Chorus

Seeing is believing, yeah;
Believing is seeing, yeah . . .

Chorus

Words and music: Carolyn Arends
© 2004 Running Arends Music
From the album Christmas: An Irrational Season, by Carolyn Arends

The Great Counter-Attack

Even people who couldn't tell George Santayana from Carlos Santana are familiar with some form of his dictum that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Like most famous comments, it's been overplayed, and many people tend to quote it glibly, without thinking about it; but it's still an important warning of the consequences of failing to understand our history. To this, we might add that those who don't remember the past will have no sense of perspective about the present.

I was reminded of that truth recently in reading the novelist Sandra Dallas' review of the book Verne Sankey: America's First Public Enemy, by South Dakota circuit judge Timothy Bjorkman. As the title indicates, Sankey was the first person ever to be named Public Enemy #1 by the FBI, "because he was the first to realize that in the wake of the Lindbergh baby abduction, kidnapping could be a lucrative gig"; he's little remembered today because he wasn't flashy, while so many of his criminal contemporaries were. As Ms. Dallas writes, "This was the Great Depression, when the rich were held in low esteem and the robbers and others who preyed on them were rock stars, glorified by the press. It was the era of Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd, John Dillinger and Machine-Gun Kelly." That set me thinking, because there's much complaint in certain quarters about the glorification of street thugs by segments of American culture—which I certainly agree is a bad thing; but it's often joined to the assumption that America is in decline from some past golden age when these things didn't happen, and that just isn't true. One might, I suppose, argue that the thugs some people glorify these days lack the style of past generations of celebrity criminals; but if we're honest, we have to admit they're really very little different.

The reason Santayana's comment is largely correct is that if we don't understand our past, we really can't understand our present, either—which leaves us vulnerable to those who would use a skewed picture of the past against us. Granted, a truly unbiased understanding of history is probably beyond our grasp, but we need to get as close as we can in order to defend ourselves against those who interpret it to serve their own agendas (whatever those might be).

Perhaps the most significant example of this nowadays is in regard to Islam, where the Crusades are often presented as a great crime by Christendom against an unoffending Moslem world, launched for no apparent reason. The truth of the matter is far different. As Hugh Kennedy shows in his book The Great Arab Conquests: How the Spread of Islam Changed the World We Live In, the early 7th century AD saw a new propulsive force break into world history: the conquering armies of Islam. Within the first hundred years, they had spread across most of the Christian world, and as Dr. Philip Jenkins notes in his excellent review in Christianity Today, "Before the Crusades", this "tore Christianity from its roots, cultural, geographical, and linguistic." The Islamic conquests essentially created the Western Christianity we now know, as the church was forcibly disconnected from its Asian heritage and character; and the Muslim armies didn't stop there, occupying most of Spain, invading Italy and the Balkans, and even reaching as far as the gates of Vienna.

However wrong the Crusades went over time (such as the Fourth Crusade, which conquered and sacked not Muslim Jerusalem but Orthodox Constantinople, in whose defense the First Crusade had been launched), they began as a defensive action, a grand counter-attack intended to roll back the Muslim armies before they conquered all of Europe. In the end, they didn't succeed; it would not be until the breaking of Ottoman power at the Battle of Vienna in 1683 that the tide of Islamic conquest would finally turn for good. Still, though we must never gloss over all the wrongs committed by Crusaders, it's important to understand that the Crusades as such were an eminently justifiable military and cultural response to Islamic military aggression; they were a counter-attack launched in a great war begun by the other side.

Settling in

Well, we started moving into our house on the 11th, and I started here at the church on the 16th, and now enough stuff is out of boxes and put away that it's possible to get around; I still have a lot of books to get organized on my office shelves, but it's beginning to look like someone actually works here. I keep getting sidetracked, though. This morning I pulled some of Stan Grenz' books out of a pile and put them in their place, and then I just sat down and looked at them for a while, and remembered. I can still feel the shock I felt in March 2005 when I was surfing the Web and tripped over the fact that he had died the day before, of a dissecting brain aneurysm. I can't claim any sort of special relationship with him or his family; he was one of my favorite professors at Regent/Carey, and I met his wife Edna on a couple of occasions around the school, but if he'd been asked to make a list of his favorite students, I have no reason to think I'd have been on it. He was just good to all of us, that's all, and I learned a tremendous amount from him, and enjoyed him greatly as a professor; you never quite knew what was going to happen when you walked into his classroom. He might be sitting there with his guitar, or the TV might be set up for Star Trek (he was a big Trekkie) or X-Files, or it might be a theological evaluation of a Gloria Estefan song. I won't say anything was possible, but he was never completely predictable, either.

And while I don't want to get into the arguments back and forth over the emerging church (at least, not today, anyway), I do want to say this. Dr. Grenz' name is conjured a lot these days in those arguments, and he's criticized pretty harshly by those fighting the emerging church; and I don't recognize the straw man they're holding up. The Stan Grenz they attack and vilify just doesn't sound all that much like the one under whom I studied. It's too bad; I learned a great deal from him, and I think those who consider him their opponent probably could too.

On the move

The movers are here early this morning. They've already gotten started (they were here Saturday), and the hope is to get most of the packing done today; I think the computer will be up until Wednesday (they have to be down in Denver Tuesday), but I'm not sure. In any case, the roots are coming up, and we'll be transplanting soon.

Five things I'm thankful for

bearing in mind that "the best things in life aren't things" . . .

For starters, and by way of introduction to this post, I'm thankful for Hap, who tagged me with this meme. Mind you, that's not the reason I'm thankful for her, though it isn't a bad thing, either. She's been a dear, firm friend for—what are we on to now, fourteen years? a good chunk of my life, anyway—a woman steeped in the presence of God who's as faithful as the sunrise and as true as eternity, and after my family, one of the people I love most on this planet. Glad you didn't go to Spring Arbor, sis. :)

Carrying on, in reverse order . . .

Bronwyn, my youngest, currently snuggling on Daddy's lap, chattering at me unintelligibly and pretending to drink water out of the cup in her older sister's ball-and-cup toy. Almost 20 months and a complete Chaos Child, she's also a complete charmer and something of a clown; I know she gets away with more than her sisters did because of it, but sometimes it's hard to help.

Rebekah, my middle daughter—the original Chaos Child, she's four now and more manageable, since she can be reasoned with (not that she always buys the reason). Absolutely fearless about most things, which is a good corrective and counterbalance to her older sister, she's our rampant extrovert. We spent an hour or so one night standing in the hallway of a hotel in Ogallala, NE because of a tornado warning; when Rebekah wasn't running full-tilt up and down the hall, she was walking up to total strangers, touching their elbows and asking them all sorts of questions. (Fortunately, they were all gracious about it.) She just loves everyone, and assumes they'll all love her too.

Lydia, my oldest, my miracle child. Her delivery was a crisis, and then she needed an operation when she was two days old (albeit a minor one, if any surgery on a newborn can truly be called minor), so we kept her very close for the first few months; it still seems a little strange, when I think about it, that that was seven years ago. She's an introvert, like both her parents (though oddly enough, our only one), but fortunately not too shy—certainly much less so than I was at her age. All our girls ask lots of questions, but she set the standard (and still does). She's in first grade and absolutely loves school—she can be running a fever and throwing up, and she's crying that she has to stay home; it no doubt helped that she had a certifiable genius for a kindergarten teacher (thank you, Jane Hill), but by nature, she's the sort of kid who goes through life with her nose in a book. She's a loving, generous, helpful child—even with her younger sisters, usually. :)

And finally, most of all, my wife Sara. Ten years is a pretty good start. I am richly, deeply blessed by her love, her wisdom, her insight, her care, her great gifts, her deep and strong relationship with God (even through the hard times we've had here) . . . I am blessed to know and love her, and to be known and loved in return. (I should note, she's one of the reasons I'm thankful for Hap—who introduced us. :) )

Anyway, I tag the Thinklings, both as a whole and in part. Y'all didn't like the last meme, guys, but you should like this one.

The Christian discipline of forgiveness

I've been thinking, periodically, about the whole question of repentance and forgiveness ever since Hap's post a couple months ago on the Emerging Women blog; and so I was interested, in dropping in on Dr. Stackhouse's blog this morning, to see that he began his reflections on Advent this year with that very theme. It's supposed to be the first post in a two-part series; the second part isn't up yet, but there's more than enough to think about already. I particularly appreciated this section:

Repenting and forgiving are not pretending the past didn’t happen and that what seemed evil is somehow okay. Repentance and forgiveness name what was wrong as wrong. If it weren’t wrong, it wouldn’t need repenting of and forgiving!

Repentance and forgiveness also do not pretend the future will be sunny and that there will be no repetition of wrong. You may have noticed that people generally don’t become perfect after a single round of repentance and forgiveness. Jesus tells us to forgive the same person seven times in a single day to make hyperbolically clear that a single episode of repentance and forgiveness may not be the end of it.

and this one:

To forgive the offender is to give a great gift. It cuts the offender free from the Jacob Marley-like shackles of past sins. It gives the offender a fresh start. It does not “re-member” the past sins by repeatedly bringing them up again and fastening them afresh to the present person. It leaves the past in the past, and lets people go ahead into the future.

But “forgive and forget” is bad advice, and on two counts. First, one can’t do it. Second, one shouldn’t. Refusing to pretend as if the past didn’t happen instead helps us act realistically to maximize shalom for everyone involved.

I like that—remembering as "re-membering," taking the the wrongs others have done us in the past and giving them new bodies (as it were) in the present, giving them new life to cause hurt all over again. Thus Dr. Stackhouse concludes,

So let us repent and let us forgive, and neither forget nor re-member. In that
paradox is the path of a hopeful, healthful future.

That's the idea in a nutshell, except that I don't think it's a paradox, really, just a middle way: the way of acknowledging the past but not living there, letting it be the past and not the present.

Harold O. J. Brown, RIP

Harold O. J. Brown wasn't one of this country's most famous evangelicals, and I don't recall Time putting him on its list of the 25 most influential; but he may well have been one of its most important. A multivalent scholar, writer and teacher, he had a remarkable career, but it's instructive that those who knew him were less impressed by what he had accomplished than by who he was in Christ. In particular, it's worth noting that he never had the high public profile of a Jerry Falwell or a Ted Haggard, not because he lacked the gifts—he was a prodigiously gifted man—but because he never wanted it.

Of the various eulogies for the Rev. Dr. Brown, the one I've appreciated the most has been this one, from S. M. Hutchens in the latest Touchstone. Since it isn't available on their website, I reproduce it (by permission) here in its entirety.

At a gathering of Harold O. J. Brown's friends after the memorial service in his honor, William D. Delahoyde, a Raleigh attorney and protégé from his Deerfield days, rose to state what I am sure was a consensus: While it was doubtful his passing would be noted by the general media, most of us there thought that in knowing him we had a brush with greatness.

In that company the observation bore a peculiar taste and weight, for the people with whom I had been conversing at the obsequies, especially the older ones who had known him for many years, were not the sort for whom the attribution would pass easily.

Many of them were, after all, members of America's nobility, old Harvard grads who knew, and often were on familiar terms with, people whom most of us have only read about. Listening to them reminisce was like an evening spent in a well-marked part of my library—but here the books were alive.

All of us knew Joe as a brilliant intellect: the valedictorian of a Jesuit high school who took his degree in Germanic Languages and Literature from Harvard College magna cum laude, who absent-mindedly forgot that he had been accepted at the Medical School, instead studying theology on the continent on Fulbright and Danforth fellowships, returning to Harvard after and Evangelical conversion in Germany to take his doctorate in Reformation history under George Hunston Williams. He lectured or conversed in German, French, Polish, Swedish, Russian, Hindi, and several other languages.

Like Max Weber, who taught himself Russian to pass the time during a week of convalescence, Joe's talent for language and the breadth of his literary knowledge were legendary among those who knew him. Conspicuous at the gathering were any members of his Harvard rowing crews, whom he had coached to notable victories, including first-place cups at the Henley Royal Regatta.

Most of us there had met him later than the Harvard days, and heard of all this as the prelude to a distinguishe pastoral, teaching, and journalistic career with InterVarsity in Europe, Park Street Church in Boston, Yeotmal Seminary in India, Christianity Today, Trinity-Deerfield, the Religion and Society Report, and finally Reformed Theological Seminary in Charlotte.

A strong Protestant, Joe was a friend of Christians wherever he found them, including us at Touchstone. He wrote several pieces for the magazine, and served as one of the principal speakers at the Rose Hill conference in 1995.

He was a particularly bold (sometimes to the point of folly) mountain climber, ran—or if he had to, walked—marathons, despite being plagued with the congenital lower-spine deformity that caused his distinctive posture and gait. He was a loving and attentive husband to Grace—a redoubtable counterpart, fully as remarkable in her way as he was in his—and father to Cynthia and Peter. While perhaps most widely known for his political and intellectual leadership in the pro-life movement, he was in scores of individual lives a paraclete who by dint of his gentle attention and concern became Kierkegaard's pinch of spice that made all the difference.

But this suffices to represent his phenomenal accomplishment. Joe was embarrassed by such notice, and on his deathbed, Bill Delahoyde told us, he emphatically said—or rather wrote, for he could no longer speak—that he did not see in himself the man that others saw in him.

His childhood and early family life, of which he spoke little, was odd and less than satisfactory, and what he became cannot be explained except through the glass of redemption. Here, to be sure, was great native ability and desire to achieve, energized by a strong sense of noblesse oblige, and a desire to love so that he might be loved in return.

This may become the stuff of greatness, but on reflection I think this is perhaps not really what we are speaking of here. The proper word is "glory," in which Joe's observation about what he could not see in himself merges into what he did see in Another, and which we beheld in him.

This glory was manifest in a humility that dispersed its gifts—which in others would have gone into the construction of a world-historical character—among his friends as the animating force behind a task to complete. His kenosis was not carried out simply in consent to a divine mission to the world, but in befriending us—making himself of minor repute principally by concentration on the cultivation of others. Thus we beheld his glory, but in its very revelation it was hidden, and so it is with the best of his servants, who, taught in his school and following his example, tend to spend their lives giving away what "great" men have so often learned to keep for themselves.

Harold O. J. Brown, whose view of his work at the end of his life echoed that of Thomas Aquinas, saw no greatness in himself because he had lived long in the shadow of his Master, simply doing for others what had been done for him. But he will be happy, I think, when his friends rise up to say that they saw in this the reflected glory of the Lord.

Christian escapism

I have Hap to thank for pointing me to ASBO Jesus, Jon Birch's strange, often fascinating, and frequently very funny comic blog. (I have Birch to thank for the following explanation: "btw. for the non british among you… an ‘asbo’ is an ‘anti-social behaviour order’… the courts here award them to people who are deemed to be constant trouble in their neighbourhoods… presumably according to their neighbours!") I've appreciated any number of his comics, but I especially like this one, because I too have a problem with the whole idea of the "Rapture." I agree with Birch that it's bad theology, though we can argue that at another time; more than that, it's bad exegesis.

I imagine that statement will surprise some people, who are no doubt already flipping to 1 Thessalonians 4 to prove me wrong. I can hear them now: "See, it says, 'The Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord.' See, there's the Rapture right there!" Fine, except . . . it isn't. Does that text say the Lord will return? Yes. Does it say we'll all meet him in the air? Yes. But look closely and notice what it doesn't say: which direction we'll go from there. The assumption behind the idea of the Rapture is that Jesus will go back to heaven for a while and we'll go with him—but the Scripture doesn't actually say that. It's only an assumption.

Now, I can predict the most likely rejoinder here: "It's obvious!" Except, once you get outside the assumptions of our culture, it isn't. To understand what's really going on in 1 Thessalonians, remember the parallels between this passage and the wedding parables of Jesus. In several places, Jesus compares those waiting for his return to people waiting for the bridegroom. Thus for instance we have the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids, in Matthew 25. In that parable, the crisis comes for the foolish bridesmaids when the cry comes, "Here comes the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!" Here's the parallel to 1 Thessalonians 4: the Lord, the Bridegroom, returns, and we go out to meet him and escort him to the house.

In other words, the coming of Christ Paul talks about isn't a halfway coming to pick us up and leave the rest of the world to rot; it's his final return to earth, and we will go out as the wedding party to escort him in. There's no Rapture in this passage, no "Get Out of Trouble Free" card; only our wishful thinking makes it so.

Update: OK, this follow-on of Birch's really cracked me up.

Thank God for God (a Thanksgiving meditation)

"Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there;
the LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD." —Job 1:21

During the time of Napoleon’s reign in France, there was a political prisoner by the name of Charnet. That is to say, there was a man named Charnet who had unintentionally offended the emperor by some remark or another and been thrown in prison to rot. As time passed, Charnet became bitter and lost faith in God, finally scratching on the wall of his cell, “All things come by chance.”

But there was a little space for sunlight to enter his cell, and for a little while each day a sunbeam cast a small pool of light on the floor; and one morning, to his amazement, in that small patch of ground he saw a tiny green blade poking out of the packed dirt floor, fighting its way into that precious sunlight. Suddenly, he had a companion, even if only a plant, and his heart lifted; he shared his tiny water ration with the little plant and did everything he could to encourage it to grow. Under his devoted care, it did grow, until one day it put out a beautiful little purple-and-white flower. Once again, Charnet found himself thinking about God, but thinking very different thoughts; he scratched out his previous words and wrote instead, “He who made all things is God.”

The guards saw what was happening; they talked about it amongst themselves, they told their wives, and the story spread, until finally somehow it came to the ears of the Empress Josephine. The story moved her, and she became so convinced that no man who loved a flower in this way could be dangerous that she appealed to Napoleon, and persuaded her husband to relent and set Charnet free. When he left his cell, he took the little flower with him in a little flowerpot, and on the pot he wrote Matthew 6:30: “If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith?”

There's a lesson in Charnet's story—the lesson of Job, I think. I struggled for years to make sense of that verse, until I found the key in an observation made by Rev. Wayne Brouwer, a Christian Reformed pastor in Holland, Michigan. Rev. Brouwer, writing on Psalm 22, muses, “Maybe it’s not that believers are grateful to God but that those who are grateful to God are the ones who truly believe him. Only those of us who are truly thankful are able to ride out the storms of life which might otherwise destroy us. Only those who have an attitude of gratitude know what it means to believe.” In other words, the root of our faith is gratitude.

We talk about the patience of Job, but in reality Job showed very little patience; what he did show was great faith, and that faith was firmly rooted in his determination to remain grateful for all the Lord had given him despite his losses. Thus he can say here, “The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord”; thus he can affirm at another point, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth . . . in my flesh I shall see God.” In the same way, once Charnet found something for which to be thankful, that little plant struggling through the hard, dry earth, he found Someone to thank, and his faith grew back along with that little plant. Before that point, faith was impossible for him, because there was no root to sustain it.

If our gratitude depends on the number of our gifts exceeding a certain critical mass, if we miss the Giver for the gifts, then we have a shallow faith indeed. The example of Job calls us to a deeper gratitude, and a deeper faith, a faith that is able to see God and give thanks even when things aren’t going well. This is the faith the poet Joyce Kilmer expressed when he wrote, “Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife . . ./Thank God for the stress and the pain of life./And, oh, thank God for God.” That’s really the bottom line, isn’t it? Thank God for God. Thank God, as Psalm 23 does, that even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, he is there with us. Thank God, as Psalm 22 does, that he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted. Thank God, as Job teaches us, that we don’t have to bury our grief and anger, but can bring them to God honestly; for Job challenges God fiercely, but his challenge is rooted in his faith, and so at the end God says of him, “He is my servant, and he has spoken of me what is right.” Thank God for God, because that is the root and beginning of faith; to quote Wayne Brouwer again, “Only the grateful believe, and faith itself which seems to soar in times of prosperity needs the strength of thankfulness to carry it through the dark night of the soul.”

One man who well knew the truth of this was Martin Rinkard, a Lutheran who was the only pastor in Eilenberg, Germany in 1637. This was the time of the Thirty Years’ War, and in that year Eilenberg was attacked three different times. When the armies left, they were replaced by desperate refugees. Disease was common, food wasn’t, and Rinkard’s journal tells us that in 1637, he conducted over 4500 funerals, sometimes as many as 50 in a day. Death and chaos ruled, and each day seemed to bring some fresh disaster. But out of that terrible time, Martin Rinker wrote these words:

Now Thank We All Our God

Now thank we all our God
With heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things hath done,
In whom His world rejoices;
Who, from our mother's arms,
Hath blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love,
And still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God
Through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts
And blessed peace to cheer us;
And keep us in his grace,
And guide us when perplexed,
And free us from all ills
In this world and the next.

All praise and thanks to God
The Father now be given,
The Son, and Him who reigns
With them in highest heaven,
The one eternal God,
Whom earth and heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now,
And shall be evermore.

Words: Martin Rinkart; translated by Catherine Winkworth
Music: Johann Crüger
NUN DANKET, 6.7.6.7.6.6.6.6.

Thank God for God. Only the grateful believe.

One other hymn

My wife argued me into posting this—it's a communion hymn I wrote a while back—thinking that there might be folks out there who'd want to use it. For whatever it might be worth, it is available to use by permission; just send an e-mail to the address in my profile or post a comment here if you happen to be interested. (If you aren't familiar with the tune to which I've set the text, the link is below.)

Jesus Calls Us to His Table

Jesus calls us to his table,
Here to celebrate the feast;
He invites us to remember
How from sin we were released.
Here he calls us to communion
With each other in his name,
And assures us of the coming
Of the kingdom he proclaimed.

We remember Christ descended
To the human life we share;
We remember how we led him
To the cross and nailed him there.
We remember how he conquered
Death by rising from the grave;
We remember that he did this
All for us he came to save.

So we gather at the table
Joined together hand in hand,
Men and women of all races,
From all times and every land.
We assemble as a body,
Joined in Christ who is our Head,
Knowing he is with us always,
And in him our souls are fed.

Thus we stand in hope of glory,
Of the dawning of the day
When we’ll see God’s kingdom fully,
All his saints, in bright array.
Then we’ll gather at his table,
There invited by his grace,
And in wonder, as he promised,
See our Savior face to face.

Words: Robert J. A. Harrison, 2006
Music: Attributed to Benjamin Franklin White; from The Sacred Harp, 1844
BEACH SPRING, 8.7.8.7.D

Song of the Week

Most people know this hymn, but most of those who know it don't know it the way John Newton wrote it.

Amazing Grace

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
'Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow;
The sun forbear to shine;
But GOD, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.

Words: John Newton
Music: traditional American melody from Carrell and Clayton's Virginia Harmony, 1831
AMAZING GRACE, C.M.

Ministry as trinitarian work

I noted last month that I was looking forward to reading Dr. Andrew Purves' book The Crucifixion of Ministry: Surrendering Our Ambitions to the Service of Christ, and had been ever since reading a version of the book's introduction in Theology Matters. It's not a long book, only 149 pages, but I read it slowly; it's dense material, requiring thought and reflection and intentional engagement. I'm still processing it, and I expect I will be for a while.

At the moment, though, I'm only doing so indirectly. One of the blurbs on the back of Dr. Purves' book is from Dr. Stephen Seamands, a professor at Asbury Theological Seminary; the blurb reminded me that his book Ministry in the Image of God: The Trinitarian Shape of Christian Service had been sitting on my shelf, and my to-read list, for quite some time. On my last trip, then, I made sure to toss it in my bag so I could start reading it once I finished Dr. Purves' book. It proved to be a wonderful pairing.

The core of Dr. Purves' argument is that ministry isn't something we do, because our own ministries aren't redemptive; only the ministry of Christ is redemptive. Thus he writes, "The first and central question in thinking about ministry is this: What is Jesus up to? That leads to the second question: How do we get 'in' on Jesus’ ministry, on what he’s up to? The issue is not: How does Jesus get 'in' on our ministries?" We need to understand the work of ministry in light of "the classical doctrines of the vicarious humanity (and ministry) of Christ and our participation in Christ through the bond of the Holy Spirit," and understand that true ministry, redemptive ministry, happens not through our work but through Christ working in and through us. Thus Dr. Purves speaks of "the crucifixion of ministry," the displacement and death of our own ministry in favor of the ministry of Jesus.

Where Dr. Seamands' book is proving to be such a wonderful complement to this is in the fact that he makes the same point but sets it in a trinitarian context. He agrees that, as he puts it, "Ministry . . . is not so much asking Christ to join us in our ministry as we offer him to others; ministry is participating with Christ in his ongoing ministry as he offers himself to others through us. . . . The ministry we have entered is meant to be an extension of his. In fact, all authentic Christian ministry participates in Christ's ongoing ministry. Ministry is essentially about our joining Christ in his ministry, not his joining us in ours."

Where Dr. Purves focuses on unpacking that truth, however—and rightly so, since its implications for how we minister are significant—Dr. Seamands broadens the picture: "The ministry we have entered is the ministry of Jesus Christ, the Son, to the Father, through the Holy Spirit, for the sake of the church and the world." As he notes, Jesus' ministry on Earth was directed to and guided by the will of the Father, rather than being driven by the needs, desires, demands and complaints of the people around him. "Of course, Jesus often met human needs and requests, but . . . they did not dictate the direction of his ministry; his ministry to the Father did." This is a profoundly freeing thought for those of us who too often find ourselves captives to the wills and whims of people in our congregations—which I suspect is most of us in pastoral ministry, at least some of the time.

In discussing the role of the Spirit, at least in the first chapter (I'm not that far along in the book as yet), Dr. Seamands focuses on the fact that "only through the Spirit can we discover what the Father is doing," and thus keep the work we're doing oriented to the Father rather than to the church and the world. This is certainly critically true, and he's right to emphasize the importance of surrendering ourselves to the Spirit's guidance and leading; but I think he underemphasizes the fact that it's also only by the Spirit's empowering that we can in fact "get 'in' on Jesus' ministry," because it's the Spirit who unites us with Christ and fills us with the power of God. Without the Spirit filling us by connecting us with God who is the source of all life, we have no power to do anything beyond our own skills and hard work; and as Dr. Seamands notes, "ministry . . . demands more than our best, more than anything we have to offer. To participate in the ongoing ministry of Jesus, to do what the Father is doing, we must be filled with the Holy Spirit."

Between these two books, I suspect I'm going to be spending a lot of time thinking about these things, and their implications for the work to which God has called me within his church. I would invite you to do the same.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . ."

Unexplained Blue Cloud Floats, Darts Around Customers At Gas Station

I don't even know what to say about that except—that's really weird. I guess it's a salutary reminder, though, that we really don't know as much as we think we do. Hamlet was right: there really are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy (at least, most of our philosophies).

The spirit of the soul

My wife and I had an interesting experience while watching NUMB3RS tonight (as I've noted before, I like mysteries, and the writers are doing a good job with that one). Just past the teaser, up came Lynn Redgrave, looking regally and serenely into the camera, declaring, "I want to die from eating too much chocolate. Or from exhaustion, dancing the tango. I want to die of laughter, on my 87th birthday. But I refuse—I refuse—to die from breast cancer. I want to die from something else."

I'm not ordinarily much of one for commercials (that one was for Bristol Myers Squibb), but that was truly cool. Part of it, of course, was that Lynn Redgrave is a woman of great presence. More than that, however, I really liked the attitude she expressed. There was no fear of death, nor any effort to avoid the fact that she, like all of us, will at some point die; that much, she accepted as a given (which far too many people don't). It was simply the determination not to let that beat her, not to die that way.

I realize, certainly, that there's a danger here, that of coming to believe that we can die on our own terms; I realize that that way lies a great many dangers. And yet . . . there is still something noble and honorable in the refusal to accept defeat at the hands of a dishonorable enemy; when paired with the acceptance that death will come at some point, and the understanding that it really is beyond our control, to stand and fight and refuse to give in is admirable, as long as it isn't taken too far.

It reminds me of Harvey Mansfield's recent article in First Things titled "How to Understand Politics," in which Dr. Mansfield (a professor of government at Harvard) insists on the importance of the Greek concept of thumos. He defines thumos as "the part of the soul that makes us want to insist on our own importance . . . Sometimes translated as spiritedness, it names a part of the soul that connects one’s own to the good. Thumos represents the spirited defense of one’s own characteristic of the animal body, standing for the bristling reaction of an animal in face of a threat or a possible threat. . . . Thumos, like politics, is about one’s own and the good. It is not just one or the other . . . It is about both together and in tension." Like almost any good, we can become unbalanced in pursuing it; but we can also become unbalanced in undervaluing it. Lynn Redgrave, in that commercial, is expressing thumos; and I say, good for her—and thanks for letting us see it.

Packing up the dreams

For the last eighteen months, since May 2006, I have been in the process of searching for a new call—looking for a new church to serve as pastor. Last Wednesday, I accepted a call to another congregation; following subsequent developments, I'm finally feeling secure that nothing's going to happen to derail this.

I have no doubt that this is God's move in God's time, from the way everything came together; but it's still hard. For one thing, I had a lot of hopes and dreams for this congregation in this place, for what Christ could do in this community . . . and most of them haven't been realized. What has been accomplished is really pretty remarkable, given the history of this church; I've been here longer than any full-time pastor in Trinity's history except one (though my "temporary" predecessor was here on a part-time basis for eighteen years), and in that time, I think we've managed to break the congregation out of its death-grip survival-ministry mode, which is no small thing. There were a lot of issues and a lot of buried conflicts from past events in the church's history, and it took a long time and considerable work to bring those out to the point where they could be addressed; mostly, I think, we've done that. One of my colleagues in Michigan likes to say, "In ministry, you're either digging rocks or you're following the guy who dug the rocks." Here, the rocks were big enough and heavy enough that digging them needed two stages: before they could be moved, they had to be excavated. That much, at least, we've done. It's not nothing. But it's so much less than what I'd hoped, it still doesn't feel like enough. I've learned to accept that, largely thanks to colleagues in the presbytery; but I'm still a little disappointed.

That's ministry, though, often enough; and at this point, what's done is done and cannot be changed, and it's time to pack up the dreams I brought with me, using the lessons I've learned here as packing material to keep them from breaking, and carry them along to Indiana. I still don't think there's anything wrong with dreaming big, and I go forward hoping that what I didn't see God do here, I'll see him do there; after all, what's the point in asking for less than his best? And if I've begun to understand along the way that it truly is Christ's ministry, not mine—if I've come to see, at least dimly, what Andrew Purves means when he talks about the crucifixion of ministry (on which more shortly)—well, while it's been painful, it's been worth the learning. God send grace that I will be the pastor my new congregation needs to become everything he wants and calls them to be, now and (I hope) for many, many years to come. Amen.

Midway between luck and skill

I'm not sure what this world is coming to (admittedly not an infrequent observation on my part), but the best book on military history I've read this year was written by a lawyer. Dallas Woodbury Isom is a retired law professor from Willamette University in Salem, Oregon who decided to explore the reasons for the Japanese defeat at the Battle of Midway because he found the existing explanations insufficient; the result was the book Midway Inquest: Why the Japanese Lost the Battle of Midway. I haven't finished it yet, but I can already say it's an excellent piece of work, as his lawyerly standards for evidence and inquiry match the standards required to do good history—and he's a good writer, to boot. The book's critical contribution, and the reason it will almost certainly be a major landmark in WWII history, is the significant amount of primary research Dr. Isom conducted in Japan, both in official Japanese sources and through interviews with survivors of the battle. He notes that as a result of his research, "many of my findings will be surprising to devotees of the battle, and some are bound to be controversial in the military history community"—but though his argumentation is marred somewhat by faulty assumptions (he does not, after all, have any first-hand experience of carrier operations in specific, or military operations in general), his evidence is so solid and his conclusions so carefully marshaled that I expect his work will stand whatever scrutiny it receives.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Dr. Isom's work to me is the number of times he uses words and phrases like "fortuitous," "miraculous," "bizarre twist of fate," "sheerest accident," and "incredibly bad luck" in describing the events of the battle. At one point he notes that "the luckiest break of the entire day for the Americans came out of what could have been a disastrous blunder: an inaccurately plotted 'interception point' based on the erroneous PBY sighting report." Luck plays a significant role in most battles, but at Midway, that was true to a remarkable degree. If you tried to write this in a novel, critics would complain that you were stretching the reader's credulity beyond the breaking point; and yet, it happened in real life. The crowning irony here, though, comes in Dr. Isom's conclusion, after he has constructed an alternate-history scenario based on a Japanese victory at Midway:

In a chronicle replete with ironies and paradoxes, the final irony is that Japan’s defeat would almost certainly have been much more horrible had it won the Battle of Midway than it was having lost it. All in all, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that Japan was lucky to lose at Midway. Such are the vagaries of war.

The reason I find this all very interesting is that Dr. Isom has no stronger word to describe all this than "luck," which is why he must repeatedly add adjectives like "incredible" and "bizarre"; though he does at one point use the epithet "miraculous," he shows no sign of actually believing in miracles. From a Christian point of view, however, I'd call this something else: divine providence. If "coincidence is God acting incognito," this many remarkable and improbable coincidences constitute a place where God is visible through the disguise, at least to those who have eyes to see. And as Dr. Isom carefully argues, this wasn't merely to America's benefit; as I would say, it wasn't just God acting on behalf of America to ensure the US won the war because we were the good guys. Rather, in the long run, it was just as much to the good of the Japanese, given how things likely would have unfolded with a Japanese win at Midway; God was at work to bring about what was best for both sides. Such are the vagaries of war? Yes, from a human perspective; but more than that, more meaningfully than that, such is the providence of God—who is ever redemptively at work in human history, even when his hand is hard to see. So I believe, and so I affirm—and so Dr. Isom shows me in his account of the Battle of Midway, even if he doesn't see it himself.

Credit where credit is due

Over at my favorite group blog, Quaid (whom you might call a quasi-Thinkling) has been beating the drum for Mike Huckabee for a while now. (An Arkansas governor as President? Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Does lightning really strike twice in the in the same place? Anyway . . .) He's managed to convince De in the process, but others have been more dubious that Huckabee has any real chance—me included, I'll freely admit. The thing is, though—as Quaid has pointed out—Huckabee's an extremely effective, engaging and winning candidate, and his supporters are fervent and committed, two factors which are doing a lot to overcome his tiny budget; he may not be able to spend much of anything, but he's continuing to climb in the polls, and the big names are starting to notice. Dick Morris, for instance, has been pointing this fact out for a while, even betting Bill O'Reilly that Huckabee would crack 10% in the national polls, which he now has; and Morris is now saying that Huckabee can win Iowa. If he does—or even finishes a strong second, which looks at this point to be the worst he'll do—then he will have established himself as a frontrunner. Should that indeed happen, he has a good chance to come out of New Hampshire as the leader, with second place behind Rudy as probably the worst likely outcome; and with that, the money will start to come, and the difficulties will start to fall away, leaving Giuliani as a very beatable opponent.

Huckabee's not the greatest candidate the GOP has ever put up; his record on social issues is strongly, consistently conservative, but his fiscal policies as governor of Arkansas have led to strong challenges from the likes of Grover Norquist and Americans for Tax Reform. Still, he's clearly better on both fronts than George W. Bush was, to say nothing of Dole or the elder Bush; and even if he's no Reagan, he's still the best option we've had since then (as Romney would also be if he manages to recover and win the nomination). That's not everything, but then, as Mal would say, it's not nothing, either; and in fact, it's good enough. Huckabee for President.

. . . and it's not even fake Carson

As a student at Regent College (the Canadian school—not Regent University in Virginia, which is a rather different sort of place) from 1997-2001, I had the opportunity to get to know Dr. John Stackhouse just a bit, and to appreciate him both for his first-rate theological mind and for his acerbic and rather black sense of humor (most notably expressed in his occasional turns as singer-songwriter in chapel). I've continued to appreciate him ever since, both for his books and more recently for his blog.

The newest post on his blog at the moment finds Dr. Stackhouse taking a swipe at D. A. Carson—and not fake Carson, either, but the real one. From the sound of things, it seems like Dr. Carson, ordinarily one of the best and most worthwhile NT scholars out there (at least on the evangelical side of things), needed a quote for his book Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church: Understanding a Movement and Its Implications and couldn't find one from an actual emerging-church figure that fit—so he found the best quote he could find, from an article Dr. Stackhouse had written a decade before, and jimmied it in. Unfortunately, the result was that Dr. Carson ended up significantly misinterpreting and misrepresenting both the quote and its author, as Dr. Stackhouse points out (at some length).

Unfortunately, I say, for two reasons. The first is that this sort of academic misfeasance, minor though it may be, only weakens the argument Dr. Carson was trying to make. Whether you agree with his view of the emerging church or not, that's no good thing, because to the extent that his challenge is valid, it needs to be heard and addressed—and to the extent that it isn't, it still needs to be presented as ably as possible so that it can be answered as fully as possible. Second, this sort of misreading/uncharitable reading, whether deliberate or due to sloppy work, is unbecoming of Christian scholars, and yet (as one of Dr. Stackhouse's commenters notes) we're starting to see it with distressing frequency in arguments between Christian academics. Another example would be the exchange between Roger Olson and John Piper over the I-35W bridge collapse, as Alan noted over at The Thinklings. It's getting very tiresome, and I think it makes Christians look bad. We ought to have the grace to extend our fellow believers at least the first courtesy of disagreement: the assumption that though they might be wrong (as we see it), they are wrong for good reasons. To assume that since they're wrong, it must be for bad reasons (whether intellectually bad, morally bad, or both) is uncharitable and un-Christlike, and we need to stop doing it.

Oh, and before I forget

I can't let this gem from Wilson's column go by uncelebrated:

"Me, I'm a Republican Absurdist, which is handy as we enter the climactic year of the 2008 campaign."

Too perfect.

All that is old is new again

The state of American politics these days is messy and unpleasant. Voices across the country can be heard decrying the polarization and hostility of our political culture, and rightly so, I think, because it really isn't terribly healthy. As a consequence, we've seen a number of books in the last few years urging us to move beyond partisan divisions—though oddly enough, the solution most of them propose is that conservatives should capitulate and become liberals, a suggestion which seems neither plausible nor helpful.

Any truly intelligent response to the state of American politics needs to begin with the realization that we've been here before—indeed, that this might be considered the normative state of American politics. It certainly isn't the most polarized time in American history; even the most pessimistic sort would have to admit that it ranks somewhere behind the 1860s in that regard, while a good case could be made that in fact, most of the 19th century was at least as bad.

If you find that hard to believe, I'd suggest you check out a new book by historian Edward Larson, published by the Free Press, called A Magnificent Catastrophe: The Tumultuous Election of 1800, America's First Presidential Campaign. John Wilson, editor of Books & Culture, discusses Larson's book in his column in the November/December issue; and as he notes, there's an awful lot about the 1800 presidential election that sounds remarkably familiar, not least the overheated and over-the-top rhetoric of both sides. One suspects that had the term only existed back then, Thomas Jefferson would have been happy to off-handedly dismiss John Adams as "a raving fundamentalist"; from his comments, he'd fit right in with one of our age's atheist enfants terrible inveighing against George W. Bush.

Meme Reversi

So I've been on the road a lot the last couple weeks, and haven't had the time to hammer out a response to the challenge my wife tossed me after I tagged her; but I've been thinking about it. The problem isn't that I don't have areas of my life to work on—like anyone else, I surely do. The problem, rather, is to answer this key question: where is my walk lagging my talk? Where is the greatest gap between the belief I hold and the belief I live? I do try to be a doer of the world, but where am I falling shortest?

After a fair bit of reflection, I think the key for me is becoming more of an agent of grace. As I've written before, I'm coming increasingly to the conclusion that we in the American church really don't want grace, because we want to believe we deserve the credit for our salvation; which causes two problems. One, of course, is the badly distorted view of ourselves and our salvation which this produces. The other is that if we don't really appreciate the grace we've received, then we won't extend that grace to others, a point illustrated in the parable of the unforgiving servant (Matthew 18:23-35). As that parable shows, if we have received grace, we're expected to give others grace in turn; and I can't claim to be very good at doing that. As a pastor, there are almost always people in the church who beat you up and tear you down—people who, in some cases, are profoundly non-Christlike in some of their behaviors—and it can be a real struggle to show them grace. It has been for me, at least, to remember that when they don't deserve it, that's why it's called grace. And as a father, when I'm physically and emotionally spent, it can be hard to show my children grace, even when they don't mean any harm.

This, then, is what I will strive to do: to bite back the sharp words, to divert the quick flare of anger- and exhaustion-fueled irritation, and instead to show grace. If I try to do this merely by force of will, however, trying to catch myself at the last minute, I know I'll fail; as I've been reminded this week in reading Dr. Andrew Purves' excellent book The Crucifixion of Ministry, it's only because we're united with Christ by his Spirit that there's any hope for anything we do. (He's talking specifically about ministry, but the application is broader than that.) If I'm going to become truly an agent of grace, then, I need to start by drawing near to Jesus, and especially by drawing near to give praise and thanks for the grace he has shown me—to practice appreciating the grace of God. I need to start by making more time for prayer and worship, and by consciously directing my focus away from prayers of lament and prayers for guidance (though both those have their place, and will continue to have their place) toward prayers of thanksgiving for grace received, and prayers that God would show his grace through me to others.

Anyway, to keep the reversed meme going, I tag Happy. (I can't tag anyone else because no one I tagged with the original meme did anything with it, except my wife, who gave it back to me.)

Good news—no boundaries

"We are called to be global Christians with a global vision,
because our God is a global God."

—John Stott

It occurred to me today, all of a sudden, that I've never blogged about Words of HOPE. I've served on the Board of Direction since September 2005, but I've never so much as mentioned the organization here, nor did I have the link to our website up. (That's now been rectified.) That's really too bad, because Words of HOPE is a remarkable and wonderful ministry, and one which should really be much better known around the church in America.

Our purpose is captured quite well in our mission statement:

For more than 50 years Words of HOPE has pursued a single, well-defined mission: To proclaim Jesus Christ through broadcasting in the languages of the world's peoples, seeking with our partners in ministry to build the church by winning the uncommitted to faith in Christ and by encouraging Christians in the life of discipleship.

The only major thing that leaves out is our unblinking focus on working with the indigenous church in the hardest places in this world to reach with the gospel. We don't go in as missionaries per se; instead, we partner with our brothers and sisters in Christ in places like Iran, Bhutan, Turkey and Saudi Arabia—places where the church is small, where the work of spreading the gospel faces great difficulties, and in many cases where Christians face great resistance and even persecution—to equip and empower them to reach their own people with the good news of Jesus Christ.

We are committed to serving international Christians throughout the world, working with them to enable them to use broadcasting to communicate the gospel to their own peoples, with the goals of winning individuals to faith in Christ, strengthening believers in the life of discipleship, helping existing churches to grow, and establishing new churches where there were none before. In partnership with other mission agencies, we seek to work with and through indigenous organizations and churches, rather than establishing our own.

Broadcasting, and principally radio broadcasting, is our niche, and it's what we bring to the table for the global church. We do produce significant printed materials, and the Internet is becoming an increasingly important part of our ministry, but radio remains, as it has always been, the main part of our work. As our mission statement puts it,

Our goal is to enable international Christians to produce and air biblically-focused radio programs in their own languages. . . .

Our principal focus from the beginning has been the use of radio to communicate the gospel. Radio is universally available; it reaches large numbers of people, including those who are illiterate or living in "closed" areas of the world; and as a word-centered medium it is uniquely suitable for conveying the message of the Bible and its implications for all of life.

For penetrating closed societies (like most Islamic countries), and reaching the poorest parts of the world, where illiteracy is nearly universal (such as Niger), there is no better tool than radio broadcasting, especially as radio is easily the most trusted source for news and information in many places around the world.

Words of HOPE is a ministry which grew out of my home denomination, the Reformed Church in America, and is unabashedly Reformed in its founding theology; equally, we're unabashedly evangelical, committed to proclaiming

the good news that Jesus Christ died for our sins and was raised from the dead according to the Scriptures, and that as the reigning Lord he now offers the forgiveness of sins and the liberating gift of the Spirit to all who repent and believe,

as the Lausanne Covenant (1974) puts it. Finally, we're committed to an ecumenical and non-sectarian approach,

to the positive proclamation and propagation of what C. S. Lewis called Mere Christianity; that is, the large body of truth that all believing Christians hold in common.

We aren't interested in reinventing the wheel; rather, we want to find what God is doing around the world by his Spirit, and join in, working with whomever God has raised up to accomplish his purposes, seeking to enable and empower them in the work he has given them. Thus our mission statement concludes,

We totally and gladly depend upon the gracious sustaining and energizing power of the Holy Spirit to be fruitful in this ministry. We gratefully recognize that the Spirit is choosing to work through us, our partners and supporters. We recognize even more our limitations, inadequacies and failures. At the same time we rejoice with firm hope in the sovereign God who blesses our efforts and causes his word to bear fruit.

We're currently at work in over 40 countries, strengthening the local church around the world in its witness, serving the work of the Kingdom of God in some of the most resistant nations on Earth; and we do it all with a paid staff of twelve and a budget of less than $3 million. It has been said by others familiar with our ministry, and I completely agree, that if you want to put your money to work to reach the world for Jesus Christ, there is no more cost-effective way than to support Words of HOPE. "Good news—no boundaries." That's what we're all about.