Gulp

I stumbled across this old bit from Soren Kierkegaard this week. I’d read it before (in Provocations), but preferred to forget it–especially when dealing with a text like Luke 18. 

The matter is quite simple.  The Bible is very easy to understand.  But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers.  We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obligated to act accordingly.  Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself accordingly.  My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined.  How would I ever get on in the world?  Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship.  Christian scholarship is the Church’s prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close.  Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you?  Dreadful is it to fall into the hands of the living God.  Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament. 

Constant Communication

Some time ago, I rolled up to a stop light on a late afternoon bike ride and and had the following encounter with a fellow cyclist.

 

Hello! she said. Her hands rested on the handlebars and she rested her weight on the bike’s top tube–and stared straight ahead.

 

Hello, I replied, pleasantly surprised that she had given me more than a nod (but a little perplexed that she couldn’t be bothered to look my way).

 

How are you?! She asked, with what seemed to be unnecessary enthusiasm and concern.

 

Oh, um, I’m fine. Beautiful day. How are you?

 

Hold on a second, she said. Some guy is trying to talk to me. I’ll call you back in a second…

 

That’s when I finally noticed the tiny gadget hooked over her ear. My face flushed as I put two and two together and realized that there was a good reason it sounded like she was talking to an old friend on the phone–she probably was. Even standing there at the intersection of Franklin and Alameda while enjoying a sunny afternoon on the bike, she was able to stay in touch.

 

Of course, her ability to do so is no longer a surprise to any of us. A friend updates his Facebook status from the ski lift. The woman in the airport pulls out her Blackberry and sends a quick email without ever sitting down. Members of congress update their constituents via their Twitter feeds even while listening (or pretending to listen) to the President speak. We are people who are in constant communication with one another.

 

A few weeks ago, a friend relayed a conversation she’d recently had with her eight-year-old daughter. I just love to pray, the little girl gushed. I only dream sometimes at night. Usually I just pray. And lots of times during the day, I don’t even say ‘Amen’ because I don’t want it to be over. I just want to keep talking to God all the time.

 

Here is a little girl who has something that many of us desire–she is in constant communication with her Creator. She, as much as anybody I know, seems to follow Paul’s command: Pray without ceasing. Her life is a continuous conversation with her heavenly Father.

 

I wonder what will happen to that little girl–to her life of prayer–in a few years. What will happen she gets a Facebook account and a iPhone and a Twitter feed with her friends. Will she be able to stay in constant communication with her God–even while she’s in constant communication with so many others?

 

Most of us would like to have it both ways. But I’m beginning to wonder if we can (or if that’s wanting to have your cake and eat it too). Does the constant buzz of communication from cell phones and blog feeds and twitter updates leave us with enough space–enough silence–for us to speak to (and hear from!) our heavenly Father?

 

I’m not one to push giving up something for Lent (I often joke with people that I’m going to try to give up sin). But maybe a helpful experiment for some of us during this time of year would be to sign off for a few weeks–to let our communication with each other slide so that we can get back in touch with our God.

(Edit: Apparently, the Pope reads my blog …)

Counting the Cost

Several months ago, Jill and I bought a new computer for our home. I was looking forward to it–at first. When the man from DHL dropped off the boxes on our front porch, I hefted them into the house and ripped into them like a child on Christmas morn. And for the first, say, thirty seconds, it was great fun.

But then reality hit. Soon, I was up to my neck in cords and manuals and speakers and video cards and virus software. Now understand–it’s not that a Luddite (at least not that much of one). I can handle some basic computer set-up without injuring myself or anybody else. The trouble is that I am not a patient person. I wanted to be surfing the Internet and organizing my check book and cropping my photos–I wanted my computer–and I wanted it now. As I looked at the mess of the cords, I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath. Why did it have to be so complicated? Why did it have to take so long?*

Forty minutes later–with cardboard boxes and broken bits of Styrofoam now cluttering my office–I finally turned the machine on. I rubbed my hands together and sat on the edge of my seat as the little machine began to purr for the first time. I was ready to go. And I figured that the new computer would be as well.

Of course, it was not. Once I got my initial log-in screen set up, I was greeted by what seemed like a ridiculous number (dozens? hundreds? thousands?) of user agreements. Windows XP. Microsoft Office. Norton Antivirus. Qwest Internet. Microsoft Live. Dell Customer Support. Picasa Photo. iTunes Music. All of them demanded that I check a box indicating that I had read and agreed with their fifty page user agreement. Which I, of course, did not do.

At least not the reading part. I checked the box and signed on whatever line they indicated–but there was no way I was going to read all that legal jargon. I was ready to get to work (and play); ready to enjoy the benefits of my new machine. Terms and conditions could wait for another day.

Afterwards, it occurred to me that I had taken a risk by skipping the fine print. The folks at Microsoft and Qwest and Norton could have slipped all sorts of fees in–and I would have been none the wiser (until a bill showed up in my inbox). I assumed I knew what I was getting into when I checked the box and signed on the line–but the truth is that I had no clue.

I wonder we have the same tendency as Christians–to check the box and sign on the line for Jesus–and never really slow down to consider (or share) what the cost might be. At least that was my thought while reading some of the lectionary passages for this week. In one (Mark 1:4-13), Jesus–freshly anointed with the Holy Spirit and heralded as God’s own beloved Son–is driven out into the wilderness where he receives no food for forty days and there is no one to keep him company but wild animals (and eventually, the Devil). In another (2 Corinthians 11), Paul rattles of his resume–which includes prison, severe floggings, lashes, beatings with rods, stonings, shipwrecks and other “dangers” (the word is used eight times in a few verses). Put the two together (and toss in a few other quotes by Jesus) and it’s hard to dodge the conclusion–Jesus didn’t live an easy life, and those who follow him can’t expect to either.

But it seems to me that’s not something we like to talk about much. We’d rather skip all that (it’s such a downer!) and talk about prosperity for the present and bliss for eternity. We’d rather focus on the benefits–some of them real, others not–and get people to check the box and sign on the dotted line. After all, if we really told people what they were getting into when they signed on with Jesus, who would bother? Wouldn’t church attendance dwindle? Wouldn’t evangelism inevitably fail? Why would people ever be drawn to a suffering Savior–especially when he might call them to suffer, too? As Paul himself says somewhere else, from where some folks are standing, it all sounds like foolishness.

But then again, honesty–counting the cost–may very well be the best policy here, too. Especially when one considers the alternative. The alternative (at least the one tried by nearly every generation) is to promise that Jesus will make a person healthy, wealthy, and wise. And though it sounds much more attractive, most people recognize it as the bill of goods that it is. Most people realize that that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.**

But if we were honest–even about the cost–maybe people would find our claims more compelling. If we tell others about the need to shoulder a cross–or better yet, show them how it’s done–perhaps our claims of truth might seem gain new traction. After all, if the good news that we bring is so good that we think it’s worth suffering for–it must deserve serious consideration.

*Friends have told me–repeatedly–that I should have shelled out the extra bucks for a Mac. Apparently, the fine folks at Apple include Fairy Godmother who waves her magic wand and makes everything work perfectly in the blink of an eye.
**The note able exception being the gospel of grace, of course.

Cold Water, Hot Coffee

We talked a lot last Sunday about Christ’s call to embrace a broken world; the command to go into the world with his other-worldly kindness, love, grace, and service. But talking about it is one thing. Knowing how to do it is another. Someone shared this poem with me that I think gives a good suggestion. It’s called “Cold Water, Hot Coffee” and is written by Ann Weems.

Sometimes that cup of cold water,
turns out to be a cup of hot cofeee,
and what we’re asked to do is
to pour it…and to listen.
Sometimes we Christians
in our enthusaism
think we were asked
to save the world,
when what we were asked to do
is to go into it
and tell God’s story
to people in need of
some good news.
Aanxious activists forget
that just listening is an act
of compassion.
Driven disciples forget
that just listening is an act
of faithfulness.
Guilty givers forget
that just listening is an act
of stewardship.
Since we church people
have a tendancy to be
driven and anxious and guilt-ridden,
perhaps we shoul
read the directs again
and pour a cup of hot coffee
and listen
in his name.

For me, there’s sweet relief in knowing that I don’t have to “fix” everything. Listening can be enough.

Stomp for Jesus?

I recently went to a production of “Stomp” with some friends. If you’re not familiar, it’s a dance/drumming group that uses every day things–brooms, newspapers, pipes, gas cans, kitchen sinks, basketballs–to make music. Not the kind of music you’d hear in a cathedral or concert hall–but music nonetheless. Personally, I think they do a mighty fine job of it (see the video below if you’d like a taste).

The show was plenty engaging in it’s own right. But even as I watched with simple delight, I couldn’t help but think about a question that I often hear: What does it mean to be “Reformed”?

The standard answer is that being “Reformed” has to do with (a) our historical roots in the Reformation of the 16th Century and (b) our conviction that the sovereign God has placed his claim on “every square inch” of our lives and we are to bring him glory in all that we do.

I think that’s an accurate answer–but it’s not a very inspiring or creative one. So as I sat and watched those musicians swoosh their brooms in perfect rhythm and clang on their sinks in strange harmony, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a better answer playing out right in front of me. After all, we Reformed folks pride ourselves in using the term “worship” in a very broad way. We want to expand the activity beyond the sanctuary on Sunday morning–we want it to overflow into all of life, wherever we find ourselves, no matter what we’re doing. And it seems to me that that’s exactly what was happening in that show. Of course, those who were making that music may not have intended it that way–but I suspect that God took some delight–in their creativity and joy, their harmonies and their rhythms, in their ability to make music with whatever the could find–anyway.

So, how is it that we can make God glorifying “music” while standing over our own kitchen sinks, clicking at our keyboards, ruffling through our papers? How can we use everything in life–even our garbage–to bring Him praise and glory?

Stomp- Stomp Out Loud

Obedience

On Sunday morning, I quoted Sietze Buning’s (Stanley Weirsma’s) poem Obedience. However, I left out what I think may be the best part (the last few paragraphs). So for your pleasure (and pondering), here it is in full:

Were my parents right or wrong
not to mow the ripe oats that Sunday morning
with the rainstorm threatening?
 
I reminded them that the Sabbath was made for man
and of the ox fallen into the pit.
Without an oats crop, I argued,
the cattle would need to survive on town-bought oats
and then it wouldn’t pay to keep them.
Isn’t selling cattle at a loss like an ox in a pit?
 
My parents did not argue.
We went to church.
We sang the usual psalms louder than usual–
we, and the others whose harvests were at stake:
 
“Jerusalem, where blessing waits,
Our feet are standing in thy gates.”
 
“God be merciful to me;
On thy grace I rest my plea.”

Dominie’s spur-of-the-moment concession:
“He rides on the clouds, the wings of the storm;
The lightning and wind his missions perform.”

Dominie made no concessions on sermon length:
“Five Good Reasons for Infant Baptism,”
Though we heard little of it,

for more floods came and more winds blew and beat
upon that House than we had figured on, even,
more lighting and thunder
and hail the size of pullet eggs.
Falling branches snapped the electric wires.
We sang the closing psalm without the organ and in the dark:

“Ye seed from Abraham descended,
God’s covenant love is never ended.”

Afterward we rode by our oats field,
flattened.

“We still will mow it,” Dad said.
“Ten bushels to the acre, maybe, what would have been fifty
if I had mowed right after milking
and if the whole family had shocked.
We could have had it weatherproof before the storm.”

Later at dinner Dad said,
“God was testing us. I’m glad we went.”
“Those psalms never gave me such a lift as this morning,”
Mother said, “I wouldn’t have missed it.”
And even I thought but did not say,
How guilty we would feel now if we had saved the harvest.
The one time Dad asked me why I live in a Black neighborhood,
I reminded him of that Sunday morning.
Immediately he understood.”

Sometime around the turn of the century
my sons may well bring me an article in The Banner
written by a sociologist who argues,
“The integrated neighborhoods of thirty years ago,
in spite of good intentions,
impaired Black self-image and delayed Black independence.”
Then I shall tell my sons about that Sunday morning.

And I shall ask my sons to forgive me
(who knows exactly what for?)
as they must ask their sons to forgive them
(who knows exactly what for?)
as I have long ago forgiven my father
(who knows exactly what for?)

Fathers often fail to pass on to sons
their harvest customs
for harvesting grain or real estate or anything.
No matter, so long as fathers pass on to sons
another more important pattern
defined as absolutely as muddlers like us can manage:
obedience.

Seitze Buning, in Purpaleanie and other Permutations
The Middleburg Press, Orange City, IA. 1978.

Endings and Beginnings

This week I’ll be talking about our longing for our “home” in the New Creation (Isaiah 11)–a home that will be “set in order” for us when Jesus comes again. One of the thoughts I had kicking around in the back of my mind while I wrote the sermon came from something Eugene Peterson once wrote about atheists (and I may have commented on here before).

Peterson observes that many atheists are what he refers to as “Atheists of Compassion.” They look around the world, see all the war and cancer and genocide and hypocrisy and other monstrosities that human beings are capable of, and conclude that there is no god worth believing in who would allow so much evil.* So their atheism, their refusal to believe in god/God, stems from their compassion for this world.

Peterson notes that in some ways, these atheists are our allies. As Christians, we too ought to be appalled by the brokenness of the creation. Our hearts ought to be just as broken (or more so) than that of a good atheists. So we agree there. We can call ourselves allies in our compassion for those who suffer in this world.

Of course, there are differences too. Namely, hope. We believe that there is a way “out” of this madness–a solution that will not come from the perfect political system or better policies or improved technology or a little more information or right thinking. We believe that one day, God himself will come again in the person of Jesus Christ and he will set all this right again. We believe that, because of his love for this world, God will not toss it in his divine dumpster, but instead will lovingly restore it to (and even beyond) it’s prefallen glory. That’s one of the reasons we long for his coming–because we love this world enough to want him to redeem it.

Here is how Lewis Smedes describes what will happen when Jesus comes again:

“C.S. Lewis said somewhere that when God comes back to earth it will be like having the author of a play called on stage after the final performance; the play is over, he takes his bow, the players leave, and the theater is swallowed in darkness. I do not much care for the metaphor. I believe that the Author of the play will appear on stage not after the final performance, but before the first curtain rises. The players have been turning rehearsals into nasty fights about who gets the best lines and the prime spot on the billboard; [they've been wrecking the set]; the play has become a disaster, doomed before it gets off the ground. it is then that the Author shows up, his original script in hand and with the power to change self-seeking egos into self-giving artists. The theater is bathed in gentle light, the curtain rises, and the play begins a triumphant and endless run. Not the ending, but the new beginning–this is what I hope for.” (172).

What we long for when Christ comes again is not the day he will whisk us away from this mess, then destroy the world and toss it on the cosmic scrap heat. No, we long for the time when he will renew all things. We long for God’s restoration of the world he loves (and we ought to love). We long for the time when we can experience the joys and comforts of home.

It’s something to think about in the midst of our advent longing. Does our longing for his coming stem out of a disregard–even a disdain–for this world that God made? Or does it grow out of our love and compassion for it? Do we look at all the brokenness around us and just want to “fly away” and “be done with it all”? Or do we look at all the brokenness around us and hope that Jesus will come again and finally fix it–make it the way it’s supposed to be? Do we sit around with our heads in the sand and wait for the sweet by-and-by? Or do we join Him in his big redemption project, even while we wait?

*This is the “problem of evil” argument. It’s compelling, but it raises its own questions. For example: How do you measure evil, and at what point do you say there’s “too much” evil. Or more significantly, what do you do with all the good in the world? (I call this the “problem of good”). Who gets the credit for that?

Baal, BEN FRANKLIN, and the Birds

That’s what I was going to call my sermon Sunday. But because of time limitations, I had to leave the Ben Franklin part out.

There were several reasons I wanted to include a bit about Ben Franklin. One is that I just finished reading his biography and have to do something with all that information. After all, over 500 pages, I learned some interesting bits about old Ben:

• When he did the famous kite experiment with his son William, his son was actually 21 years old (not a small boy as legend seems to suggest). Later, the two were estranged because of their differing positions on the War for Independence.
• Franklin was a fan of parlor tricks. Among his favorites was a cane he made that would dispense oil on water when he tapped the waves. Doing so would “still the waves.”
• Franklin briefly started his own sect. Among the rules: “all men shall have beards” and strict adherence to vegetarianism. The little experiment ended when Franklin caved in and ate a hamburger (or steak, or pork chop, I can’t remember which).
• Franklin started the first volunteer fire department in America.
• Franklin believed that fresh air was good for one’s health and took a daily “airbath” in front of his open window (some say in the nude).

There are many other interesting snippets about Franklin–but the simple intrigue of his life was not the primary reason I wanted to include him in my sermon. Rather, I wanted to include him because I see Franklin as something of a “Case in Point” for my discussion on “practical atheism.” Let me explain.

One of the most famous scenes in Franklin’s life (taken from his own autobiography) is his arrival in America as a “bedraggled 17-year-old runaway…straggling off the boat” with little more than a nickle to his name. Equally famous is the image of Franklin some fifty or sixty years later, simple but stately, a wealthy land owner (with three homes when he died), mover and shaker of 18th century politics etc etc. Basically, a success. According to Isaacson (Franklin’s biographer), this move made Franklin “typically American” because Franklin proved that with a little hard work and ingenuity, (unlimited) upward mobility was possible. To borrow the old cliche, Franklin proved that it was possible (and indeed, expected), for Americans to “pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.”

So what’s the relation to “practical atheism“?

Well, in Franklin’s world, the goal was to live independently, not dependently. Franklin believed in some sort of benevolent, powerful being off in the sky, but when things went well in his life, Franklin was much quicker to pat himself on the back than to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving. He was much quicker to praise his own industry and frugality than to praise the Maker of Heaven and Earth. He (Franklin) deserved all the credit for his life’s successes.

Perhaps this sounds “normal” to us (particularly the “bootstraps”/industry talk)–it is, I think, a very accepted idea in our culture that with a little hardwork, we can do whatever we want. But now consider Isaacson’s parting comment on Franklin’s life and legacy. He writes: “[Franklin] embodies one side of a national dichotomy that has existed since the days when he and Jonathan Edwards [one of our Spiritual forefathers, I would say] stood as contrasting cultural figures. // On one side were those, like Edwards…who believed in an anointed elect and in salvation through God’s grace alone. They tended to have a religious fervor…and an appreciation for exalted values over earthy ones. On the other side were the Franklin’s, those who believed in salvation through good works…and who were unabashedly striving and upwardly mobile.” (476)

It’s an interesting dichotomy, I think. And perhaps one that ought to give us pause as we think about whose footsteps we follow in. Is it Edwards, dependent on God’s grace? Or Franklin, and his “self-help” upward mobility? Where does our help come from?

:There are other the obviously “religious” implications that manifest themselves when this worldview is expanded beyond economics and into one’s beliefs the relation between God and his world. For example, there was Franklin’s well known effort to perfect himself by following a rigorous self-improvement regimen (complete with ledger book in which he recorded his progress on 13 virtues).