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.
Little Faith, Big God
The girl was too young. Everybody who heard about it agreed. They shook their heads, tsk tsked, and in the murmered conversations that take place in funeral parlors said, nearly without fail: I can’t believe it. It’s so sad. She was so young.
She was closer to twenty than to thirty. She’d only been at her job as a jr. high English teacher for a year or two. She sang on the praise team in her church. She’d met a boy who she thought would be “the one.” Life looked so good. She was just getting started.
But cancer changed all that. The diagnosis came mid-September. By December she was gone. Just in time for Christmas. She’d been so young.
Most everybody who came through the line in the funeral home kept a stunned silence. I’m sorry, they said to her sniffling parents, I just don’t know what to say. Then they offered a quick embrace, dropped their tear-blurred eyes to the floor, and shuffled on past the flowers, past the pictures, past the casket that held the body of the girl that was too young. Who could explain such a tragedy?
The young man–the one who sat next to her in church, the one who occasionally slipped his hand over hers during the long prayer, the one who had wanted to bring her home for Christmas dinner, the one whom she had thought was the one–he thought, if only for an instant, that perhaps he could explain it. Maybe it was grief. Or maybe he really believed it. But as he stood by the casket he said, I’m sorry…I’m so sorry. I should’ve had more faith. He looked up at her parents. If only we had believed more. God could have–would have–healed her. ‘The prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well.’ Faith the size of a mustard seed…His voice trailed off and his sobs took over.
_________________________________
There is a wonderful scene at the end of C.S. Lewis’ Prince Caspian in which Lucy, finds the great Lion (and Christ-figure) Aslan after a long search. The scene unfolds this way:
Aslan, Aslan. Dear Aslan,” sobbed Lucy. “At last.”
The great beast rolled over on his side so that Lucy fell, half sitting and half lying between his front paws. He bent forward and just touched her nose with his tongue. His warm breath came all around her. She gazed up into his large wise face.”
“Welcome, child.” He said.
“Aslan,” said Lucy, “You’re bigger.”
“This is because you are older, little one,” answered he.
“Not because you are?”
“I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger.”
________________________________________
Sometimes, we treat God like a balloon animal who must be inflated by the mighty wind of our faith. Little faith, little God. Big faith, big God. God’s strength and power are somehow restricted (or enhanced) by the sincerity, urgency, and depth of our faith. If God does not act as we had hoped, we have no one to blame but ourselves.
There is something that sounds almost right about that. After all, there is a strand of teaching in Scripture that suggests that our faith has an important role in mobilizing God. I’m not entirely sure of what that means. But I am fairly certain it does not mean that our faith changes how big and powerful God is. The God of Scripture will still be God–a big, sovereign, Almighty God–no matter how feeble or fumbling my faith is. He does not need me–or my faith–to do his work. It is not for his benefit that my faith needs to grow. It is for my own.
As little Lucy grow up (in her faith), the gift she receives is that she continues to discover that there is (and has always been) more to Aslan than she had previously thought. More strength, more power, more wisdom. As she grows bigger, she discovers that he has always been bigger. Her perceiving that reality with new clarity does not make the reality more or less true. But it does open up a new way for her to live. To love him more. To trust him more. And finally, to collapse with confidence into the mighty arms of the one who is bigger than she had ever dared to imagine.
As we continue to profess that we believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, may our faith continue to grow. And in the process, may we discover that he has always been bigger.
Good Books
Let the Little Children Come
I spent the better part of the last two days helping to lead a mini-retreat for kids who are interested in professing their faith. Among the many gems I overheard was this one from a fourth grade boy:
“I think God is like a bird flying through the sky not giving up on others
because if he did he couldn’t fly.”
“My Pleasure”
“Nothing presses the noses of the faithful up against the windows of their faith like death.”
I’ve been to a few funerals by now (probably participated in twenty or so in my combined two and a half years in two different churches). I hope it doesn’t sound cold to say that this was all pretty standard stuff. I don’t say anything new or ground shaking; I didn’t come up with anything the family hadn’t heard before or said in some way to one another (in one form or another). It was one of those affairs of which Garrison Keillor’s Pastor Inkfus commented, “The preacher said said the things that preachers always say on such occasion, but the things that need to be said anyway.”*
All the same, one of the children came up to me after it all, shook my hand, and thanked me. It was a pleasure, he said. He was very kind. But his comment caused me to fumble for a reply. The pleasure was all mine or Glad I could do it seemed like the natural response to such a statement. But that felt rather “off” for reasons that should be obvious to anyone. It just sounds cruel to say that doing some Saint’s funeral was a pleasure.
But the truth is it was. It was a pleasure spending time with the family–being invited into such an intimate moment in their life. But more than that, it was a pleasure because I got to do such a wonderful thing. I got to stand next to a casket that hovered over a grave–just waiting to fill it–and tell the old old story about another grave that remained empty. I got to say words like “hope” and “peace” and “comfort” and, above all “resurrection“.
I say those sorts of things every time. And I get shivers–every time.
Before I started leading funerals, I would’ve assumed that they would be times of spiritual struggle and doubt for me. I assumed that the dark shroud that hangs over us during times of death would make it impossible to see much of God at all. It’s true that I’ve been to a few funerals that have been like that (of children, for instance) and suspect that may be the case for others in attendance. But as a pastor, I find that some of the most nourishing times for me have been at funerals and by gravesides. For some reason, the Spirit seems to be more tangibly present at these affairs. And perhaps more to the point, it is when death presses my nose up against the window of my faith that I see with greatest clarity my risen Lord on the other side. In those moments I am convinced–right down to my toenails–that I have not put my trust in him in vain. And that is always a pleasure!
*This is a paraphrase. If any Keillor devotees out there know the exact line (from sometime this spring) I’d love to have it.
The Revealer of Mysteries: Take 2
I encountered what could only be referred to as irony in my sermon preparation this week. I’ve been doing my best to write a compelling, relevant, biblical sermon on Daniel 2–and on the “Revealer of Mysteries” that is so frequently referred to there. But in the meantime, I’ve felt enshrouded in mystery myself. For some reason, I can’t seem to see this text with the clarity I would like. I’ve found myself keeping company with Nebuchadnezzar–tossing and turning at night as I try to understand what God is trying to “reveal” to us in all of this.
Come Sunday (barring major a major revelation in the next 48 hours), I’ll be talking about how God’s knowledge of the future assures us of his control of the future. But I’ve also thought–more than once–that this text might take us a different direction.*
It seems to me that old Nebuchadnezzar is on a quest for truth in this passage. He’s looking for a kind of truth that doesn’t come about through human intuition, or the standard Babylonian ways of knowing that he had long depended on. This methods of knowing the deeper mysteries of life are ultimately insufficient and not dependable. Nebuchadnezzar needs something more. He needs a revelation from God. (That’s why he ups the ante with his court astrologers and has them tell the dream–because he wants to know that they can be trusted).
The parallel is less exact than I’d like (and that’s one of the reason’s I didn’t preach this) but it seems to me that there may be a very strong Christ connection in this passage. After all, Paul frequently refers to Christ as the “mystery of God” (do a search–it’s rather fascinating. Or start with Col 1:25-2:5, 1 Cor. 15)**. The question for us then becomes how we can know the truth about the mystery of Christ.
There are plenty of places to start when we’re searching for the “meaning of the mystery” that is Christ. Apologetic arguments, intuition, the words and witness of passionate believers. But in the end, our conviction of the truth of this mystery will not come from our normal sources of understanding; it will not come from our quest to discover and discern Christ. Ultimately, it will come from God’s movement toward us. It will come from his act of revelation. And if we take Daniel’s actions as a cue, it will only come when we step out in faith and enter a relationship (prayer) with him.
I think it’s something worth considering. I know some folks (some readers here?) who are curious about the Christian faith, curious about Christ, but don’t know how they can know for certain. To them, I’d say–step out in faith. Pray that God will reveal this truth to you (or to your loved ones). Or if you’re a person who struggles with day to day doubts, with the plausibility of what we confess to be true as Christians (which most of us who think about these things will do at some point)–pray to God to reveal the mystery to you. Ask him to give you true wisdom and insight into the certainty of life with Christ.
*More than one, actually. If I get around to it, I’d like to jot down a few things on the politics of Daniel 2.
**A connection can also be made with the “wisdom” idea that comes in Daniel’s Song (Chap 2.20 ff)–God gives wisdom, and the wisdom of God is the foolishness of the world–the cross of Christ that we know through the Spirit. Cf. 1 Cor 1
A Rant: Removing the Roadblocks
Pardon me, but I need to rant a bit today. That means this post will undoubtedly include some ridiculous overstatement, silly generalization, or other ungodly use of words. So I ask your forgiveness in advance. But I just can’t help myself.
My rant is in response to an email I received recently. It was from a dear friend who was looking for a book recommendation. The book was not for him, but for a family member who apparently has turned her back on the Christian faith (any book recommendations out there?). While explaining his request, he gave a fistful of reasons for her rejection, but the one that really stuck in my craw was one I’ve heard all too often. This young woman–a bright student in finishing her masters degree in biology at a large university–is under the impression that you can’t be a Christian AND be an intelligent scientific thinker. Her proof? The (misinformed) impression she has that all Christians believe (and must believe) that dinosaurs never existed, that the earth is 6,000 years old, that there is no such thing as evolution in any shape or form.
Don’t get me wrong. You are entitled to conclude from your reading of Genesis 1-2 that God created the world in a very short time (even 6, 24 hour days). You may believe, if you really think it best, that the dinosaur bones that have been found just west of Denver were a part of God’s elaborate plan to create a young earth that merely looked old (on par with giving Adam and Eve belly buttons). You can even insist that the earth is a mere 6,000 years old. You may think all those things and I will have no beef with you. Just don’t tell me that I have to believe all those things. More importantly, don’t tell my young friend that she has to.
There are a lot of reasons I’d prefer Christians don’t run around insisting on this narrow interpretation of Scripture. For one, I (and many other Bible-believing Christians) believe that there are other (better?) ways to interpret the text–ways that remain faithful to Genesis’ original intent but not at odds with scientific findings. I think that looking to Genesis 1 to see just how old the earth is and exactly “how it happened” is starting in the wrong place–that when we do that we’re asking questions the text isn’t trying to answer. I think that the text may not be trying to tell us exactly how God created the cosmos (I can’t understand why God would think it necessary to tell us that–first thing!)–but that he created it (I can understand why God would want us to know that). I may elaborate on that in a later post (depending on how much trouble I get in for this one), but that’s not really my main point here. My main point is that there are sound reasons for having a different understanding of Genesis 1 and that to insist that there is only one–and that it’s the one that seems to contradict so much science–is to put up an unnecessary roadblock to the Christian faith. I’d even go to say that, depending on the severity of the insistence, it may even be making the Christian faith about something it is not.
Let me explain that last sentence–and pardon the tangential thinking. Remember, this is a rant.
Here in Denver, it’s not uncommon to see “Darwin Fish” plastered on the bumpers of the Subaru’s in the King Soopers parking lot. You know the ones–they have fins, feet, and often, gaping mouths that are chomping down the “Jesus fish”. There are probably a lot of things that could be said about those fish (either the Darwin fish or the Jesus fish). But for today, just take a moment and notice the interest pairing that is happening here. The Darwin symbol–which represents one interpretation of the way the world came about–is paired with a Jesus symbol. I don’t expect anything on a bumper to be too profound, but in my mind, this should be an apples to oranges comparison–a confusion of categories. After all, when I want people to know Jesus and to become Christians, what I want for them to know is all the life, salvation, holiness, joy, fulfilment, meaning, hope, and redemption that can be theirs in Christ Jesus…not some particular understanding of all the details of the way this world came about. To be sure, we have something to say about that as Christians–but it’s not our main concern. Yet the pairing of the Darwin/Jesus fish on so many bumpers suggests that, at least in the minds of many (presumably) non-Christians–that is our (and Jesus’!) main concern. If that’s the message we’re sending, no wonder so many people remain disinterested–or even scornful–from the “Christian” faith.
That’s one of the tragic ironies of all the energy that many Christians have been pouring into the Creationist debate. They’ve been fighting for “truth” in what may be considered a peripheral issue, but in the process have but up unnecessary roadblocks for those who might come to know the Truth, the way, and the life. In my mind, that is something worth ranting about.
Food, Farms, and Faith
My friend Becky grew up on a large farm in central Iowa but has since moved to the booming metropolis of Grand Rapids, MI. Some time ago, she was reflecting on the transition. There are things she likes about living in the city, she said. But even so, there are times she feels, well, “disoriented.”
I didn’t quite understand what she meant at first. But I hazarded a few guesses.
“Hmmm. Disoriented.” I said, “Like when you’re downtown and the streets aren’t straight? Or in a suburb and keeping hitting cul-de-sacs?”
“No…”
“Okay, like when the sun doesn’t shine for four months and you no longer know if its day or night?”
“No…”
Becky then went on to explain that she felt “disoriented” because she had lost her connection with the earth and therefore had no way of keeping time. Back on the farm, she and her family lived into the regular rhythms of the land. Planting. Irrigating. Harvesting. Resting. Their lives changed with the seasons.
But back in Michigan, Becky went to her office every day. She sat in a windowless, climate controlled room (sweaters in the summer, short sleeves in the winter!). It now made little difference to her and her livelihood if there were droughts or floods. She could still go to Meijers–even in February–and buy her tomatoes, asparagus, and whatever else she wanted to eat.
Becky’s disorientation is something that all of us who live in the city face–even if we were never blessed to be “oriented” by farm life. Because all of us are separated from the earth. I read recently that the average meal in America travels 1,200 miles before ending up on our plates. A friend of mine (who’s much better with these things than I am) once calculated that to get a single strawberry from California to the produce isle in a Northwest Iowa grocery store takes nearly 600 calories of energy (a huge net loss!). I’ve also been told that the tuna that is served in Manhattan’s finest Sushi restaurants is caught on the Atlantic coast of the US, shipped to the fish markets in Tokyo, sold, and then shipped back to New York. In other words, that tuna goes around the world before it ends up on the plate of the American consumer (and this is not all that unusual in our food system).
There are, of course, tremendous ecological implications to all of this. Most obviously–there are all the extra costs involved (both in terms of finances and natural resources), and the generally unsustainable nature of this system. But there is a more subtle danger too. If we are separated from the means of production–separated from the land–and have no idea how our food is grown (or raised), then we will have little interest in the way the land is used (or the animals are treated). This alone should give us pause. (By the way, Wendell Berry is excellent on this point.)
But we should also consider what all these degrees of separation between us and the land do to our relationship with our Creator. If we spend our days in climate controlled offices, cooped up in our cars or even on the city bus, if depend solely on King Soopers to provide us with our food (Tomatoes in February!)–then not only will we be separated from the land, we will also be separated from the One who made and upholds the land.
This is a point that was brought home to me by Rob Bell recently. Bell argues that there are many people who struggle with needless doubts and faith crises. They complain that God seems too far away, that he is distant. But it’s no wonder, says Bell. When we don’t take time to notice God’s handiwork, when we no longer need to pray to and depend upon him for daily bread, when he becomes a peripheral consideration in the meeting of our daily needs–then undoubtedly, he will seem a long ways away. But really, says Bell, it’s not God who is a long way from us. It’s we who are a long way from Him.
Where we get our food–our relationship with the land–can drastically affect our faith. If we are cut off from the creation, we will (almost) certainly face some spiritual “disorientation.”
So what’s the upshot of all this? Well, I’m suggesting that we all do what we can to get connected–with the Creation and the Creator. Start a garden next spring. Try to eat a locally grown meal. Walk instead of driving. Get connected with the creation. And the Creator.
If want to read more on the topic, I’d suggest the writings of Wendell Berry (particularly his “Jayber Crow” Novels, but also his essays, if you’re ambitious), Kathleen Norris (“Dakota” is a great read).
Revelation
A week or two ago, someone at church handed me a copy of Jon Krakauer’s book Under the Banner of Heaven. The book looked interesting, but after glancing at the cover, I wasn’t sure I wanted to read it (just yet). You see, I’ve just read some other books that are rather disturbing (namely: “King Leopold’s Ghost”) and wasn’t sure I was ready for what Krakauer had to offer: an investigation into the murder of a young mother and her daughter at the hands of two brothers, Dan and Ron Lafferty–two Fundamentalist Mormons who carried out the killings after receiving (they claim) a direct command from God.
Well, Jill was gone last week and I found myself with a little extra time on my hands and nothing to read. So I grabbed Under the Banner of Heaven and dug right in. I’m glad I did.
The book was fascinating to me because Krakauer didn’t just tell the story of the murder. Instead, he chose to dig into the “roots of their crime [which] lie deep in the history of an American religion practiced by millions”–Mormonism. Krakauer gives a fairly detailed history of Mormonism (and more specifically, the underbelly of the Mormon Church–Mormon fundamentalism) and, occasionally, pauses to apply his observations of Mormonism to religion in general.
One particular aspect of Mormonism/religion that seems to fascinate Krakauer is the idea of “revelation”. And with good reason. After all, when Joseph Smith founded the Mormon Church 170 years ago, it was on the basis of a (alleged) revelation from the Angel Moroni (near Jill’s hometown of Palmyra, NY, by the way). During the following years, Smith (and his followers) reported countless revelations/interactions with God detailing everything from where they should settle to what they should drink to whom they should marry to when the Civil War would begin. Krakauer’s fascination with religious revelation is also understandable because (as I mentioned above), it was on the basis of a Revelation from God that the Lafferty brothers committed their murders.
From my perspective, Krakauers discussion of the Mormon Church, the Lafferty Brothers, and revelation stirred up two related thoughts.
First: What is it that leads Mormons to believe, so fiercely, that they have indeed had revelations from God? As a Christian, I don’t (necessarily) doubt the possibility of God communicating with individuals. But I DO (as a Christian) presume that at least 97% of the supposed revelations received by Joseph Smith and his followers are in fact false. So what are we to make of this (and for that matter, the “revelations” received by adherents to other religions)? Are these individuals simply deluded? Have they been duped? Do they just have a bad case of indigestion? Or have they actually heard “voices”, but mistaken the voice of God for the voice of someone/thing else? How do we explain this phenomenon?
The second point, related to the first, concerns the “Revelations” that we claim to be true as Christians. Because, make no mistake, even if we don’t believe that God communicates directly with individuals anymore (a hotly debated question in some circles), our religion is nevertheless a revealed one. It’s a “revealed religion” because, even though we can deduce some general truths from reason/nature (e.g. “God Exists), ultimately, we need the Revelation of Scripture (and the Person of Jesus Christ) in order to show us the full truth.
So, that being said, how do we know that our “revelations” can be accepted as from God? How do we know that we’re not crackpots, misguided zealots, or just plain gullible people who have been duped? How do we know that we can trust the apostle Paul, Matthew Mark and Luke, Moses, Isaiah, and the other writers?
This has actually been a question that has troubled me for some time. And after reading Krakauer’s book (and let’s face it, sometimes after reading Scripture itself), it’s easy to see why people might be skeptical. But regrettably (in my opinion), this is one area in which it’s hard to get to a real nuts and bolts, “rational” answer. Sure, we can point to things like historical/archeolotical evidence and manuscript studies–but these only take us so far. At some point, I think we simply have to believe it because, well, we believe it. It’s a matter of faith. It’s a matter of the Spirit’s testimony in our hearts. It’s a matter of trust. We believe the Bible because the Bible (and the Spirit) says we can believe it. It is a vicious circle, and probably not the most satisfying answer to skeptics (Christian or non*), but thus far, it’s the best answer that I can come up with. Anyone smarter than me have a better one?
*Krakauer, a self-proclaimed agnostic, would likely shake his head at disgust at my answer. In the prologue of his book, he writes: “Faith is the very antithesis of reason, injudiciousness a crucial competent of spiritual devotion.” Krakauer also adds this rather provocative charge: “when Religious fanaticism supplants ratiocination, all bets are suddenly off. Anything can happen. Absolutely anything. Common sense is no match for the voice of God–as the actions Dan Lafferty vividly attest.” (xxiii)
Inside Joke
This week, I’ve been reading Richard Mouw’s book Calvinism in the Las Vegas Airport. It’s a fine book written in an engaging style that avoids overly technical and cliche explanations of Calvinism’s “Five Points” (AKA: “TULIP”) and their broader implications.
There are, of course, many mysterious elements in this “system” of belief.” One of these mysteries is raised by the “P” in “Tulip”–”Preservation/Perseverance of the Saints”. This doctrine states that, by God’s grace, those who are “in ” the Kingdom will always be “in. There is nothing they (or any other force/factor) can do to cause God to let them go. It’s a fine doctrine of great comfort, as far as I’m concerned, but the natural question that it raises is how people who appear to have had genuine faith can appear to lose that faith. Hence Mouw’s little joke (and apologies if this is only amusing to seminary/pastor types):
Four theologians are standing alongside a train stopped between stations. They are looking at a dead body beside the tracks, arguing about what happened to the person. The Lutheran said he jumped from the train and was killed by the fall. The Catholic said he must have been pushed. The Methodist insisted he fell accidentally. But the Calvinist said that if he was really off the train, then he had never been on it in the first place!
ba-da-bump.
