isolated and without the gods

I am currently reading The Aeneid. It is a beautiful and tragic story, but good stories are tragic. Reading The Aeneid has reminded me of the narratological difference between classical stories and modern stories. For example, there is a bit of a difference between The Aeneid and Nausea. A litany of differences and similarities could probably be compiled, though I am not interested in compiling such a list. However, I am interested in the fact that The Aeneid is far less focused on providing the audience with every jot of Dido’s phenomenology. Instead, the motions of her heart are intimately entwined with wishes of the gods and fate; there is a microcosm and a macrocosm, and the microcosm must conform to the macrocosm. And in Nausea Roquentin is not concerned about the gods. He wishes only to divulge his personal nightmare. In Nausea there is only an inconsequential individual; there is only a microcosm. With these thoughts in mind, I wonder how the Odyssey and Ulysses would match up. I suspect it would epitomize what I’m talking about.

I used to think that modern novels were sophisticated for their keen psychological insight, and in some cases I still think that. However, reading The Aeneid reminds me that the vast majority of modern stories are but footnotes. That said I do not wish to set modern stories over and against classical stories or vice versa, though I do have affinities for modern stories. I am mostly interested in the fact that story telling has changed. Also, I am interested in how we got from point A to point B, and I really don’t think that it was a straight line.

In Shakespeare there appears to be both a microcosm and a macrocosm. The heavens reflect Hamlet’s heart, as do his poignant soliloquies. There is a macrocosm and a microcosm, but the macrocosm serves as a mere reflection of the microcosm – for example, the heavens function merely as an indicator of Hamlet’s turmoil; the macrocosm is not to be reflected by the microcosm. There appears to be a reversal in roles.

It might then be asked, did the Enlightenment strip us of the gods and fate? Did the Enlightenment strip us of the macrocosm? I don’t know precisely, but I do think it is interesting that by the nineteenth century the macrocosm seems to have been put aside as inconsequential. What truly matters then is the autonomous “I,” a move that had been fermenting for hundreds of years and finally came to fruition.

In some of my favorite novels, the macrocosm is peeking through, but their stories are not of cosmic proportions. If Alyosha doesn’t find Dmitri, then Dmitri may be in trouble but the kingdom won’t be lost and the world won’t end. The Brothers Karamazov is not an epic, but rather ironically a large element of the story is a sort of debate about there being a macrocosm of which the microcosm is to be a reflection.

And then as if to throw a wrench into things, we have stories that have remained such as The Lord of the Rings. There is Frodo, and there is the struggle between good and evil that is sweeping middle earth. There is a microcosm and a macrocosm, and they are reflective of each other. However, even this is more similar to Hamlet, for Frodo is not seeking to reflect a personified macrocosm.

In light of these crumbs, it might also be noted that we often tell the truth with stories. And as our way of telling stories has changed, it appears that the way we tell the truth has changed. It would be rather nice to say that truth is truth, but alas we think and speak truth; truth does not reside in an unchanging vacuum; it passes along various and ever-changing contours of human experience, from generation to generation. We once spoke of the gods and our wills being reflective of their wishes, and now we speak of individuals as if they are gods.

“A Window into Your Soul”

I am currently in a Presbyterian Creeds class, and that to most people, I think, will seem most boring. Reciting, studying, and even dissecting creedal formulations written hundreds of years ago hardly seems like a day at the playground. The Book of Confessions is probably not next to Harry Potter on many people’s list for summer reading.

One of our culminating assignments for the class is to write a one-page statement of faith, a personal creed. On one of the first days of class, our professor looked at us – we few, we happy few, we band of brothers – and said, “your statement of faith shall be a window into your soul.” This window may be a beautiful window that says much of God and of you, or it may be a minute hole that is so generic that it does little more than reiterate a few lines of arcane theological jargon.

Our task then is to speak as best we can about God and humans in the course of a page and to do so using language that is unambiguous. How a mere page could be a full-fledged window I do not know, but I suppose I shall attempt.

This class is chockfull of short assignments each constituted by about six sentences all pointing toward the culminating assignment, the personal statement of faith. On one of the first assignments, our professor challenged me on the inclusion of a particular word. I must confess, since we are in the business of confessions, that I was not all that prepared for such a challenge regarding this simple word, “but.” It was then that I realized this class would require that I think carefully and do the best I can to craft lucid articulations of the Christian faith. It was then I realized that literally every word must be weighted with shiploads of meaning. Such is the case with creeds (and short stories!).

I have since considered the building of this window as a personal challenge, not a mere assignment. If I were to consider it a mere assignment, I am sure that it would feel quite laborious. But as a personal challenge, it is rather daunting and exhilarating. “A window into your soul!” Indeed! What a thought! Up to this point in my theological education (in college and in seminary), I have sufficed it to parrot the work of other theologians and to use proper citation. But now I shall attempt to do the unthinkable. I shall attempt to formulate a statement of faith that is both orthodox and personal with language that expresses the tenets of tradition with a refreshed and self-bespeaking vitality. Though it should be personal, I am, perhaps ironically, not trying to be original (in content). In fact, I must seek to be as unoriginal as possible, lest I find myself to be unorthodox.

No matter how I look at this assignment, I find myself paralyzed by fear and joy. It may be exciting to craft such a window. But what shall be seen when the window is complete?

A Place for Fiction in Faith

I remember a particular day in college when a fellow student told me I should spend less time reading novels and more time reading the bible. I responded with a smile and a few lines of admiration for his fervor, but what I said to him was miles apart from what I was thinking. There were many things I wanted to say to him, but probably most of all I wanted to know why many Christians find no room for fiction in faith.

For many folks in Christian circles, fiction is something of entertainment and is thereby of lesser value than a Christian devotional book or the latest spiritual book by so and so (take your pick who the author is). That fiction is often put to some lower level of importance is sad and ridiculous. Look at the best stories ever told. They are all fiction (see the parables of Jesus for example).

Before considering fiction and the bible, I shall consider novels and devotional books because it seems that Christians nowadays read devotional/spiritual books about as much as anything, maybe even more than the bible itself.

I need only to survey briefly a few personal favorites to point out that the latest devotional/spiritual books do not stand a chance. The Brothers Karamazov shows more vividly the ramifications of depravity, doubt, forgiveness, and love than any contemporary devotional book. A Tale of Two Cities does more to indicate the harsh disparity between rich and poor than the myriads of contemporary Christian books on generosity. War and Peace possesses more than any spiritual book pertaining to the existential predicament and journey of humans. The Lord of the Rings does more to show the realization of hope and despair than any devotional book ever conceived. I am laughing at myself for even comparing these novels to some of the devotional/spiritual books I have come across.

Many Christian folks are quick to pick up a devotional/spiritual book instead of the bible. To these folks I want to say, “Pick up A Tale of Two Cities or Crime and Punishment or Anna Karenina instead.” In response some may say, “But a devotional gives me what I need right now and it’s easier to read and it’s more accessible.” To that I might say, “First, how do you know what you need right now? Second, the struggle of reading a thick book is part of what makes the process fulfilling and edifying; it’s an opportunity to build qualities such as patience, something we Christians in America need to acquire.”

I am treading on dangerous ground here. I am not saying the reading of a novel should replace daily devotions, i.e. prayer and bible reading. However, I am suggesting that a good novel may be a much-needed substitute for a devotional/spiritual book.

It might be pointed out that devotional books are functioning differently than these novels that I have mentioned. I will not mount an entire argument here, but I will remark briefly. Devotionals may seem initially different than some of these novels, but in the final analysis these novels will likely serve to shape a person in similar though in even more profound ways than an average devotional book. That brings me to my next point.

But why read these novels of mere “entertainment” when I could be reading the bible?

Permit me a tangent. I remember when in college a few of us were debating about the importance or unimportance of philosophy, which involves a dash of irony. Our opponents contended that philosophy is not practical. To that I decided to turn their rationale on its head; I responded that philosophy is the most practical of all disciplines, for we use philosophy more than any other discipline, be it implicitly or explicitly. Of course, I was being a bit facetious but not entirely, for even they were making use of philosophical argumentation (though shabbily) as they argued against us.

When it comes to reading fiction, I think it is similar to what I argued in college about the practicality of philosophy. By reading fiction, our imagination and our sense for literary drama, beauty, and narrative structure are formed. This is crucial for reading the bible. We can use the fruits of reading fiction in our reading of the bible.

To this some might say, “Perhaps, but reading the bible makes me a better reader of the bible.” I might respond, “Perhaps, but wait just a minute. Reading the bible with all the verse markings, annotations, and personal baggage from Sunday school and years worth of sermons makes many of us susceptible to reading the bible on rigid railroad tracks, incapable of seeing the many unexplored dimensions of a given biblical text.” Developing as a reader and more specifically developing as a reader of the bible seems to require that our reading involve stories from outside that may form us as readers.

I’m finding that even now I am learning to read. I said this to my older sister in Albania, and she laughed because it is rather funny that I am still learning to read at the age of twenty-four. I suppose I am a slow learner. However, I am learning that by reading fiction I am developing as a reader.

So my first point pertains to content. There are many good novels out there that are simply more worthwhile than the vast majority of devotional/spiritual books out there. My second point pertains to we the readers. Reading a healthy diet of fiction exercises our imagination, perception, mental agility, and ability to read a story well. The fruits of reading good fiction may then be put to use when reading and discussing the bible. But keep in mind that fiction is to be enjoyed not just used as a tool.

A few novel suggestions:

The Movie Goer by Percy

A Tale of Two Cities by Dickens

Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky

Moby Dick by Melville

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky

Anna Karenina by Tolstoy

The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien

Do not be daunted by the length of these novels. Think of the length of a novel as the size of a treasure chest. The longer the novel, the more room there is for gold.

Surprised by Hope: a Review of N.T. Wright’s book

There are innumerable book reviews on the Internet, so forgive me for adding to the mass. I would like merely to highlight a few points in N.T. Wright’s book, Surprised by Hope, which especially struck me as either rather wise or helpful. It should be said also that this particular book is not one of his scholarly works and should be judged accordingly. It seems to be largely pastoral, which I appreciate immensely.

Wright remarks on the rather apparent confusion about Christian hope for the future. We are all going to die, so what is the Christian hope? Christians describe death in all sorts of ways and with wide degrees of reactions. No doubt many Christians consider their hope to be in zipping off to heaven after they die, residing in perpetual bliss for eternity. Wright contends that this belief is due in part to Platonic philosophy infiltrating Christian theology. Furthermore, Wright notes that immaterial immortality was not the early Christians’ hope and that actually early Christians hoped for future resurrection based on Jesus’ resurrection. Jesus’ resurrection adumbrates and is the foundation for the future resurrection of the saints. Physical resurrection is the Christian hope (for as Wright notes in one of his longer works, there is no other kind of resurrection). The Christian hope is not to escape a condemned world but is to resurrect and become part of a redeemed world, a new heaven and a new earth. The future resurrection of the saints is what Wright deems life after life after death. Basically, a loose chronology based on various New Testament texts: people die, people go to be with Christ (life after death), people resurrect (life after life after death). He speaks briefly of hell and arrives to a similar conclusion as C.S. Lewis.

I would suggest that any critique of Wright’s view regarding the physicality and centrality of resurrection should first consider Wright’s longer scholarly work, The Resurrection of the Son of God (a great book by the way!).

New creation began with Jesus’ resurrection, but the present day is riddled with trouble; evil is a reality, but “Jesus’ resurrection is the beginning of new life, the fresh grass growing through the concrete of corruption and decay in the old world” (123). The culmination of new creation will be the marriage of heaven and earth (again, the hope is not to ascend into an immaterial heaven but is for a new heaven and a new earth). With this there will be an eradication of evil, and in the present day Christians may work for the kingdom. Wright aptly distinguishes between Christians building a kingdom themselves and God’s reign in which Christians may participate. He subscribes to the latter, and I think rightly so.

Christians may participate in God’s reign, and what Christians do in the present day has implications for the future. What we do today matters a great deal. All we do now God can use for the future in the new heaven and new earth, a future that is not static but is teeming with new projects and possibilities. “Every act of love, gratitude, and kindness…every minute spent teaching a severely handicapped child to read or to walk…every act of care and nurture…every prayer, all Spirit-led teaching, every deed that spreads the gospel, builds up the church…all of this will find its way, through the resurrecting power of God, into the new creation God will one day make” (208). As we stand in an aching world and look to a future filled with hope, there is work to be done with Jesus at the helm. Working for justice in the present is a crucial element of participating in God’s reign today and contributing to the future life after life after death.

I have not, of course, done an adequate job of tying together the elements of Wright’s book, nor have I done an adequate job of reviewing all the major points. But perhaps this will suffice as a start. I highly recommend Wright’s book as a desirable and biblically founded alternative to escapist theologies that are so prevalent in today’s churches.

Crumbs: Hamlet and Consciousness

The title to this blog involves two of my perennial interests, especially so when I was in college. Hamlet the Shakespearian play and Hamlet the character are each among my favorites in literature. Consciousness lists near the top of my curiosities in whatever field I happen to be reading at the moment, usually philosophy or theology or literature (I admit ignorance regarding psychology, which makes me an unequivocal layperson on the topic). Needless to say, Hamlet and consciousness overlap to a large degree.

Harold Bloom, a noted literary critic, regards Shakespeare as the inventor of the human (in literature) due to Shakespeare’s creation of Hamlet. Many people “see” consciousness in Hamlet, and this seems to be due to Hamlet’s soliloquies. Hamlet seems to demonstrate a keen self-awareness and disillusionment. It is little surprise then that many writers (Kierkegaard, Dostoevsky, Joyce, Sartre, etc.) of varying classes have been drawn to Hamlet, for Hamlet displays all the qualities of a self-aware individual. He is an excellent case study for phenomenology.

Consciousness is often proclaimed to be a mystery – Hamlet himself says so, and indeed it seems to be the case. It is elusive, and sometimes strikes me as a mere philosophical muddle that we are guilty of describing poorly and consequently consider it inscrutable.

There is a twist with Hamlet’s self-awareness. Walker Percy remarks on consciousness in general saying, “The paradox of consciousness is that the stranger we meet on the street and glance at for a second or two we see more clearly than we shall ever see ourselves” (“Is a Theory of Man Possible?”). Percy seems to be a bit facetious here, but there may also be some truth to his analysis. If Percy isn’t too far off the mark, then it is we the readers/hearers who see Hamlet more clearly than he could ever have seen himself; and yet we see him only with processes and patterns of thought that seem largely out of our control.

Hamlet is considered to be a self-aware individual, and yet he is mostly unaware. We see Hamlet, but we see him according to patterns of which we are unconscious. Are he and we interacting in an ambiguous Bermuda Triangle of the unconscious? But what am I saying?

When we “see” Hamlet’s consciousness and when we speak of consciousness in general, we should likely speak briefly of anthropology more generally, for what we are doing – when we are seeing Hamlet and speaking of our own consciousness – involves anthropological constitution. If it is accepted that humans are constituted by materials, then it might also be said that these materials working together create a synergy that produces what we often call “consciousness.” These materials are basically “unconscious.” This means that we humans, though you could say we are “conscious” beings, are largely “unconscious.” It is this immense “unconscious” side of us that paves the roads for consciousness and consequently has much to do with determining our patterns of thought, albeit not entirely because our contexts also seem to contribute to paving the roads for our patterns of thought but to this we indeed are also largely unconscious.

It may be the case in literature or philosophy that we consider the degree of a person’s self-awareness according the perspicacity of their phenomenology. And yet a portrait of a person’s phenomenology is only a single window into their dynamic being. And this single window only sees a product, and this product is seen only by a product. What is called “raw realism of subjectivity” is not raw (though “raw” may denote “less polished”); it is a polished product, polished by the seemingly unconscious materials that contribute to our constitution and by our context.

It is in part because we are largely unconscious beings that we need to practice habits, for it is with physical habits that have the potential to condition those “unconscious” aspects of who we are and consequently those conscious aspects of who we are that we contribute consciously to forming our unconsciousness. It is habits then that have the capacity to train us comprehensively. With habits we can train those tangible “unconscious” aspects of who we are, which contribute to that synergy that contributes to the rise of consciousness. It is difficult and elusive for “me” to discern the line between what is conscious and unconscious, for I find myself stumbling into habits of thought all the time, which seem random and largely unconsciously engendered. This would, I suppose, be an example of “slipping” into habits. However, I would contend that we need to learn to practice “intentional” habits of thought and behavior, lest we “slip” into detrimental habits, which have comprehensive ramifications.

This blog may seem as if I am going down a dead end road of materialism, which of course I am not. I have not said a word about God and God’s relation to humanity, which entails involvement of consciousness but does not require consciousness to be “immaterial.” Consequently, I have also not commented on the nature of spirituality, though spirituality also entails involvement with consciousness. Needless to say, speaking of consciousness as inadequately as I have done here does not insinuate nor necessitate a completely materialistic anthropology.

In this blog, I have spoken generally and as such rather vaguely, but I am merely emphasizing that we humans are indeed physical beings. This is obvious, but it is often (it seems) overlooked. We are quite physical, and as oxymoronic as it may seem, we need to become aware of just how unaware we actually are that we might use our infinitesimal consciousness to train our immense unconsciousness. If human consciousness is an ocean, then human unconsciousness is a galaxy.

Hamlet said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” and I might add, “there are many things in heaven and earth, Hamlet, that give you dreams of philosophy.”

The Hermeneutic of “Me”

It is not uncommon for the Bible to be used in churches as a handbook. It seems rather common practice for the Bible to be used for some wise jots that pertain to my life that I might live a better life and in some circles discover fire insurance free of charge. Not only is this egregious, but this is unfortunately common. It might then be little or even no surprise that the Bible finds its place on bookshelves not far from other self-help books.

Since beginning my stint in seminary, I have found myself to be a rather self-absorbed reader of the Bible, repeatedly identifying myself with the protagonist of a given story. Paralleling myself with kings and heroes is of course ridiculous, but it seems to be consistent with such American anthems as, “You are the hero of your own story.” Such has been inculcated on American consciousness that we bring it to the Bible and think little if anything is wrong. This is the hermeneutic of “me.” We are crafting our own stories of which we are the heroes, and the Bible comes along for the ride. But doing such leaves us homeless in the name of freedom.

We Christians, at least in America, need to have a Copernican Revolution in our reading of the Bible; we would do well to begin to realize that the Bible does not revolve around the individual “me.” We tend to milk the bible for all it’s worth that it might be immediately pertinent to my current needs and interests. We need, however, to discover that the Bible’s contents do not revolve around “me.” We need to discover that the Bible is cosmic in breadth and depth. The Bible does indeed pertain to the individual “me” in so far as I find my appropriate place within the cosmic purposes of God.

We would do well to do away with the hermeneutic of “me.” This is not restricting; doing away with the hermeneutic of “me” provides room for another hermeneutic, a hermeneutic of true liberation. It’s a hermeneutic that declares that I am not homeless hoping aimlessly to make something out of nothing. It’s a hermeneutic that declares that there is indeed a home to be had, if only we would accept the invitation to walk through the front door. It’s a hermeneutic that requires that we actually read the stories without immediately imposing ourselves in and on them. If we refrain from persistently crafting the stories that they might put “me” at the center (which thereby abolishes the stories), we might find that there is indeed a home to be had and it is quite robust and welcoming.

I suppose I should speak plainly. I am a slow learner, but I am learning to read the stories and read them again, thinking not of myself as I read them. I am learning to refrain from placing myself in the story and to simply read the story; I am learning to then consider how this particular story has a place in relation to the other stories. And finally, I am learning to consider how this story fits in the breadth and depth of the overarching narrative. This requires patient reading, and I am still learning patience. I am learning to see how the stories relate, to see how they weave a tapestry, to see how they make a home in which I may reside but which are not built merely by the capricious interests of “me.” This involves letting the Bible provide room for “me” but on the Bible’s own terms and ultimately according to God’s purposes, not mine. The Bible is not a handbook, and I am not the hero. The Bible’s stories and God’s purposes do not conform to me; I am to conform to them but only after reading them with patience and on their own terms.

A Religious Spirituality

In one form or another, people seem hungry, thirsty for something, perhaps an encounter with something/someone perceived as transcendent. People often call this dimension of their lives “spiritual,” and in order to sate this aspect of their existence people search tirelessly for special experiences that they might deem those special experiences “spiritual.” These special experiences seem to be a mystery and a curiosity and an obsession in American churches.

My generation in particular seems to have grown disillusioned with institutional religion and seems to be on a hunt for something, something, something to supplant that tyrant called Christian religion, that empty institution of unspiritual routines. My generation speaks of authenticity and organic relationships and spirituality. We have grown sick of the clownish charades in majestic church buildings.

All this may be well and good, and indeed majestic buildings are unworthy substitutes for the sublimity of God’s presence. But with such words as “authenticity” and “organic,” have we paved roads for sloth and lethargy? We seem to believe that we have supplanted institutional religion for something more real. We seem to believe that we have found what we were looking for. We seem to believe that by rejecting institutional religion we have found the treasure of authentic spirituality. But are we a mob of individualistic milk drinkers believing ourselves to have grown up via so-called authentic experiences? Have we merely put sugar in our milk?

It would seem that we in this adolescent generation would do well to learn habits, granted we might be too lackadaisical for such things (in the name of authenticity!). We would likely do well to learn to bend a knee and bow a head, for we have forgotten reverence having grown narcissistic with our own individual “spirituality.” We would do well to learn the practices of the faith. We would do well to discover the profound reality of the Eucharist. Did we forget about Holy Communion when we supplanted institutional religion? If so, shame on us; it is our loss.

Are we a communion of saints or maundering particles each pretending to be unrelated and self-determinant? Have we fled the spires of institutional religion only to enter tents of capricious spiritual ecstasies? Have we grown nomadic? Have we grown isolated? We speak of community, but by that do we mean facebook?

We may never return to the spiraled cathedrals, or at least we may not return for a while. But in either case, we must not lose our faith. We must no lose completely the practices that we seem to have pretended are merely part of institutional religion. If we forget habit, if we reject routine, if we lose sight of the Eucharist, if we deem tradition an archaic relic of the dusty past all in the name of authenticity, we may find ourselves in a dark room without faith and with only a few tweets proclaiming the value of contemporary authenticity. God forbid that happen.

Talkin’ to Grandpa

When we’re kids, we often don’t appreciate the wisdom of our parents and consider our grandparents simply wrinkly versions of our parents. When we’re kids we’d be hard pressed to listen to their wisdom. Perhaps, tradition is like talkin’ to Grandpa. But he’s a dialogue partner we don’t appreciate until we’ve grown out of adolescence. It’s no surprise that we treat tradition like a tyrannical parent or wrinkly grandparent. “Tradition is how we got here, but it’s not where we’re going.”

When we begin to grow out of our youth, we begin see ourselves for what we are: shortsighted children. It’s then that we begin to appreciate the words of our parents and grandparents. It’s then that we might relinquish rashness and learn courage by retaining boldness but with admonition from those who have lived on the front line. Perhaps, we’ll even develop enough patient courage to sit down on that rocking chair next to Grandpa on the front porch and listen to his storied wisdom. It’s then that we might put our ears to the floor and listen to the wisdom of tradition, of things past in order to see where it is we are headed. It’s when we sit down and begin to listen, to question, and to speak carefully that we learn to converse with the past. And it’s when we learn to converse with the past that we learn to live in the present while crafting a future. It’s those years after adolescence that we begin to have a Copernican revolution. It’s then that we realize we are not the center and we might even need someone else. It’s then that we begin to realize the words of our parents and grandparents might just turn out to be wisdom. And it’s then that we begin to realize newer isn’t always better.

When we are children and are given a crayon, we scribble. But one day Grandpa comes along and teaches us to write the letters A, B, C. It may be a nuisance at first, but eventually, we learn to write A-Z. It’s exhilarating, so we write it again and again. Some time later, after we feel we’ve mastered A-Z, Mom comes along and tries to teach us C-A-T. She tells us that we can use C-A-T instead of drawing a fluffy animal every time, though fluffy animals are still fun to draw. Writing C-A-T is annoying at first, but we get the hang of it and it becomes fun. We learn D-O-G and S-T-O-P too. Then one day a steel nosed lady teaches us something called “grammar,” a terribly and exhaustibly superfluous practice. But after a while, we begin using it with ease, and the steel nosed lady even tells us that it’s okay to break the rules of grammar with sufficient reason. And her steel nose begins to seem less like steel. We learn to write sentences, paragraphs, essays, and speeches. The steel nose of grammar becomes more fluid, like the strokes of a paintbrush. Then one day we notice a grey hair popped up on our head. It’s then that we walk into a room, and there’s a little person scribbling on a piece of scrap paper. We walk up to the youngster and ask, “Would you like to learn to write your A, B, C’s?”

Our acquaintance with language may be similar to our acquaintance with Grandpa’s storied wisdom. At first, it seems tedious and annoying. We say we don’t need it; we feel that it's little more than rubbish. But after a while we learn its wealth and even pass it on. Perhaps, tradition is like Grandpa, a dialogue partner who teaches us a language. But it’s a language we don’t begin to appreciate until we’ve begun to learn it.

Squiggles on a Page

Historical events are similar to jots on a page. We can look at them. But if we do not know their meaning or significance, then it’s pointless to spend hours looking at them. Historical events are similar to untranslated letters on a page. When a historian writes a history, she translates those events, and with every translation interpretation is implicit. Actually, this seems to happen when any of us experience life. We translate experiences into languages we can understand, and in the process we do a large degree of interpretation. It goes without saying that there can be poor translations, poor interpretations of life. How then might we discern between an excellent and a weak translation? Continual scrutiny, dialogue, and argument within a community: tradition.

It’s often the case regarding history that we want to know what “actually happened.” We say we want snapshots or perhaps videos of particular historical events. However, that’s likely not what we always really need. It’s sometimes contested that the gospels, for example, are filtered events of some conjurers. The chronology is mashed and inconsistent, events are conflicting, and discourses involve an array of variability etc. Thus, we wish to know what “actually happened” regarding Jesus. However, I doubt we would be satisfied if we saw the pictures from what “actually happened,” just as I would be dissatisfied with my confusion if I looked down at some pages of Arabic not knowing what to make of it, not knowing the significance of the seemingly haphazard squiggles. I need more than those seemingly haphazard squiggles. I need to know their significance.

It’s an ironic thing that with the gospels we have what we need – i.e. an explanation of the significance of Jesus, yet we are dissatisfied because we say we actually don’t want the translated letters; we have grown accustom to saying that we want the untranslated letters that we can’t read. Personally, I would prefer to read those Arabic letters translated into a language I can understand; similarly, I would prefer for historical events to be translated by people who are aware of the significance of those events. But again, even if I were to have walked around with Jesus all those many years ago, I likely would not have understood what on earth I was witnessing (perhaps, see Philosophical Fragments).

Interpretation and the proper lenses to interpret historical events are needed. This, at least in part, seems to be the job of tradition, for it is within tradition that we consider those lenses with scrutiny, dialogue, and even argument. It is thereby within tradition that significance is discerned, and it was the traditions that gave shape to the gospels we have today that provide us with the significance of Jesus. Without those traditions, we would be staring cluelessly at squiggles on a page.

Burgers and Faith

Watch commercials on television for ten minutes: we in America are addicted to immediacy (I’m reminded of the aesthete in Either/Or vol. 1). And we want faith the same way we want our burgers and fries: now! Fast food is cheap, and you usually get what you pay for. We want a spiritual experience or conversion or sign from God right this instant. It seems then we easily forget or perhaps ignore that faith is learned. To learn the faith, we are to walk in the footsteps of those who have walked before us; we are to listen to their words and begin to see their conceptual world of language. Faith is a habituation, and fluency takes time. Being addicted to immediacy, do we Americans have the patience and perseverance required for faith?

On Story: our world

No matter your trade, station, vocation, or hobby, at one point or another you will likely come across the opportunity to tell a tale or two, be it about the size of the fish you didn’t catch or the distance of the marathon you didn’t run. We all tell a tale or two given the occasion.

Our lives are storied lives; we live stories, and we live within stories. Stories make for us a symbolic world within which we may reside. Given this, I think not of stories to read “before I die” but of stories to read in order that I might live richly. Some stories are like an entire house, while other stories are like the furniture inside a house. I tend to think of my own life as a story similar to the latter and the biblical story as a story similar to the former. My story resides within the biblical story. The biblical story then creates a symbolic world within which I may reside. Sitting in a single room of the house will not, of course, divulge all the happenings in the rest of the house. Discovering other rooms then is half the fun, and discovering other rooms in the house provides more symbols with which I might engage life.

Needless to say, the bible is not the only story. There are myriads of other stories. Whether we realize it or not, we are furnishing our houses with the stories we watch, hear, and read. If this is the case, then we will surely be careful what sort of stories we involve in our furnishings. I doubt if anyone desperately desires to put a mud puddle in the middle of the living room. However, some stories are not pleasant, but they are important. Therefore, I do not suggest that anyone should furnish the house with only pillows. We need more than pillows, lest we make for ourselves a padded room – and those are for crazy people. Also, it might be said that it is quite easy to decorate your house without spending so much as a bead of sweat and a dollar. But those who are unwilling to do the work may find themselves in a house without windows, a house resembling a coffin.

Regarding stories in such a manner, it is then less about reading particular stories “before you die” and more about reading particular stories in order that you might live with them. Whether we like it or not, we live storied lives, and the stories we invite into the house will most certainly set the trajectory for the sorts of lives we will live and the sorts of stories we tell.

Science and Religion

I won’t mince words. Scientists often practice the inscrutable luxury of critiquing religion, and religious folks often naively critique science. The two have been considered predominantly at odds with one another. On occasion a theologian will attempt to prove the bible scientifically, and a scientist will attempt to disprove the bible scientifically. A lot goes into this screaming match, and I will not seek to sort all this out in a blog mostly because I’m not qualified. But I will say a word or two.

It seems that science and religion are both telling stories about the world, but they seem to be telling their stories differently. If I were to read Crime and Punishment and then I became furious because it broke the rules of sonnet writing, would I be justified in my fury? Crime and Punishment doesn’t have fourteen lines, among others things. Similarly, if a batter in a baseball game hit the ball and on his way to first base he failed to dribble the ball, would he be guilty of breaking the rules of baseball? Novels and sonnets operate according to different rules. Baseball and basketball operate according to different rules. Perhaps, even science and religion operate according to different rules. It won’t do then for science to regard religion as illegitimate, just as it won’t do for Michael Jordan to critique Barry Bonds for not dribbling the baseball after he hit it out of the park. We might call these various practices “games,” and then we might say that these different games each have their own set of rules according to which these games operate. We might call these different games "language games," and with these language games we enact practices and tell stories.

I am not saying science and religion are incompatible. Are baseball and basketball incompatible? That question doesn’t make sense. Incompatibility isn't the issue. I know lots of sports fans who are fans of both baseball and basketball – though I might add Michael Jordan likely should’ve stayed away from playing baseball. However, what I am saying is that science and religion are telling different stories, and they are doing so with different languages, which require particular rules. Does it make sense to say that sonnets are incompatible with plays, if they are referring to the same events? We have grown accustom to speaking of religion and science as if it is proper to say they are incompatible with each other, but I suggest otherwise. I think this is an erroneous assumption. Shakespeare did not contradict himself by writing both sonnets and plays, nor did Dostoevsky contradict himself by writing essays and novels. It might be said, “But the bible says one thing about this event and science/historiography says another.” To that I must say, “Yes, and they are doing so according to different rules of story telling, just as a poem differs from a novel.” Let each continue to operate according to their rules, though it might not hurt for them to rub off on each other. After all, novelists would do well to learn a thing or two from poets, and the converse is true also. Incompatibility is not the issue, and we would do well to recondition ourselves regarding this assumption.

If I heard some seemingly bazaar utterances made by a member of a Luba tribe, it would be a misapprehension on my part to tell him, “No, that’s not how you say pickles and cheese!” If I were to do such a silly thing, I would be ignoring the rules according to which he is making those particular utterances; I would be ignoring the rules of his language game. So we may wish to translate his utterances into utterances according to rules with which I am familiar, but it must be noted that something will likely be lost in the translation process. We will not acquire a word for word translation. What then is to be done?

Just as a professor of literature needs to be acquainted with multiple languages, so too a systematic theologian needs to be acquainted with multiple languages, including the “language” of science. This should be the case not merely for a systematic theologian to travel the earth seeking to “prove the bible” but that with a richer understanding of the many languages of the world, which are imbedded in their respective cultures, a systematic theologian might practice a more robust theology, one which acknowledges the multiplicity of stories that are told according to varying language games. Scientists might also do the same, lest scientists and theologians continue to squawk at each other in completely different languages expecting the other to stop breaking all the rules of story telling. However, I should add that I am not suggesting that theologians pretend to learn the “language” of science and then practice it poorly, just as Michael Jordan likely should've stayed away from playing baseball. That would only exacerbate the dialogue. Theologians need to develop a fluency in other "languages." But if nothing else, dialogue partners need to make room for the other’s language and way of telling their stories without immediately considering it to be an illegitimate practice.

A Puff of Smoke in the Imagination

In what I consider to be Camus’ greatest novel, the Plague, the doctor reflects, “And since a dead man has no substance unless one has actually seen him dead, a hundred million corpses broadcast through history are no more than a puff of smoke in the imagination.” If this is in any way true, then it should come as little surprise that news anchors speak of death and suffering without so much as a tear. They speak of tragedy without apparent remorse – it seems that this runs in accord with a long-standing tradition of reporting a neutral history (but that is another matter). For the moment, I would like to draw attention to the fact that we are a society saturated with simulated corpses, and we are blurring the boundaries of fiction and reality. There seems to be little difference between reality TV and the recent “high profile” court case. Though there is a large degree of difference between war in the Middle East and war in our local cinema, the two seem contiguous in American consciousness. We see corpses. We see lots of them, piles of them, and yet we do not cry out for a stop. We race to the cinemas for more. When we get home from the cinemas, we turn on our TVs and hear of more disaster. The transition from cinema to the evening news on TV, from fiction to reality seems slight. We have made life a stage and blurred the difference between fiction and reality, and consequently we have thickened our skin toward the wrong things, namely people. Our hearts seemed to have grown callous to the sight of corpses and familial deterioration. It is, after all, for our entertainment.

Without a doubt, social media has revolutionized cultures and societies. This is scary and exhilarating. There is such a great potential! However, “With social media we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same social media comes praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be” (James 3:9-10). There are living bodies on the receiving side of our messages. There are living bodies on the receiving side of our comments, pictures, and video posts. How long ago was it that a person was encouraged to commit suicide while on the Internet? And I’ll wager a guess that there are many other stories like it. “My brothers and sisters, this should not be.” Social media has a seemingly infinite capacity for good and evil. If never before has the human tongue been tamed, how might we tame the ever evolving world of social media?

I have never given Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath much credit. I often consider it an average novel, written for a few high schoolers who will hate reading it. However, it records the methodical deterioration of a Midwest family’s dignity as they seek merely to survive. With each step, they stoop lower; they are forced to stoop lower and lower. By the end, a reader must ask, “Is there any dignity left? And if there is not, when was the line crossed, when was dignity relinquished?” These are important questions, and I might add, “At what point do we murder other people’s dignity through social media?”

With the proliferation of technology, with the fast paced evolution of technological capability, the church needs to consider its profound situation. For now the value of both dead and living bodies seems to be losing their worth in the American consciousness, whether or not this is consciously realized. This is vitally important. The church must not miss the train on this issue; the church must not let this go unchallenged, unqualified. To this, to the rise of social media, the church must recover its prophetic voice more than ever, for even the sight of corpses and the knowledge of other living bodies are merely puffs of smoke in our imaginations.

Perhaps, a proactive start might be to hesitate and weigh carefully each word, picture, and video before posting. Perhaps, a proactive start would be to counteract the brutality with a few kind words and simple gestures of grace. This is surely possible. Just as the tongue may be used for good and evil, social media may be used for both good and evil. Let it be for good, and let us remember the value of other human persons.

Community: Plumbing the Depths of a Mud Puddle

It would seem that we are each individuals each responsible for our own peccadilloes and other perhaps more severe though private sins. It would seem that we are each unrelated atoms floating about casting dice for our own destinies. I am responsible for me and for no other, and no other is responsible for me.

Since the so-called foundations of “modernism” have begun to crumble or have crumbled (whichever flavor of vague description you prefer), a few things have come to light, namely: I am not an unrelated individual; I am not a manufacturer of my own destiny. The sad though potentially exciting twist is that I share complicity with society’s sins, and society shares complicity with my sins. I do not mean to suggest that each person may evade responsibility by contending that it is the society’s fault for personal sins, but it seems that we do need a more robust understanding of the larger society’s role in relation to particular persons. It would seem then that we need to reevaluate a person’s place in community and the community’s relation to persons. For too long we have treated persons as individual islands, yet no person is an island, no person is an atom unrelated to fellow atoms.

If respective communities share a responsibility for persons in the community and persons in the community share responsibility for the community, then the community needs to make its priority the building of character, lest the community crumble and with it any hope of recourse. The community is indeed responsible for the building of character within the community – a novel thought!

The church then cannot say, “oh look at that terrible sinner!” The church must say instead, “we have failed this person, and now we must come to the aid of this person!” There is no room for the church to evade responsibility for sins, and there is no room for particular persons to evade responsibility for sins. Responsibility goes both ways, and the responsibility to build character then goes both ways – it might be said as a side note, though no less important, that character is both public and “private,” and it is not limited to behaviors in the prayer closet or other "private" spheres of existence.

The Gospel calls people together and in so doing binds them together by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Gospel does not give room for persons to be unrelated to one another, for the Gospel creates community, a community that is not to let its eyelids grow heavy at the crucial moment, a community that is not to deny its partnership with persons from the community. The Gospel creates community that is to be of integrity and cohesion. In the narrative world of the Gospel there is neither space nor time to let individuals be individuals unrelated.

Muddle puddles often seem shallow, but every now and then you might come across a mud puddle that keeps getting deeper and deeper. To plumb the depths of the church’s responsibility to particular persons is similar to plumbing the depths of a mud puddle that at first seemed only a few inches deep but keeps getting deeper and deeper. The church’s responsibility to particular persons runs deep, and the sooner churches acknowledge their responsibility and invest in particular persons the sooner they will be on the road to a Gospel community. The sooner churches make the building of character a priority, the sooner churches will begin clearing the murkiness of the muddle puddle.

Personal Continuity: Obvious yet Elusive?

I shall begin with a question and shall end without answering it. “Whence is personal continuity?” It might be said I am little more than this physical body. When I die and become compost and am eventually recreated perhaps the recreated version of me is the same me by virtue of my being preserved in the mind of God. In contrast, it might be said that I am physical with a sort of soul in which case my personal continuity lies with the soul. Either option, among many others, may offer a degree of solace. However, I find them each to be a bit inadequate regarding personal continuity in narrative (in response it might be said that the narrative is the personal continuity, but this is rather unhelpful when seeking to build personal continuity inside the narrative).

At what point does a reader or hearer meet a person in a narrative? Is it the learning of a name? Is it physical description? Is it the peculiar vernacular in a dialogue? Is it repetitive behaviors? Is it a combination? Perhaps, a reader or hearer never feels that he or she has “met” the person. Then in that case at what point does a reader or hearer feel as though there is someone to continue meeting over the course of the narrative? And if the reader or hearer continues meeting this person, what is “holding” that fictive person together so that it is the same fictive person that a reader or hearer is meeting?

Though it may be said that over the course of a narrative a person/protagonist “evolves” or matures, that hardly solves the problem. That is the problem. Of course, someone like Natasha in War and Peace perhaps matures into a fine young lady far from the terribly immature young girl in the beginning of the story, but it seems as though the Natasha at the end of the story is still the same Natasha from the beginning of the story, however matured she may be by the end. It is the immature Natasha who matured. And yet who or what is maturing? What, in a sense, is preserved? What is the “material” (that which is Sonya) that matures but is still the same “material”? I fear words such as “essence”, yet is that what I am pretending is necessary?

Again, speaking of essence and nature and soul and the like may provide some solace for some folks in some cases, but that sort of talk seems rather unhelpful for maintaining personal continuity in a narrative, especially when endeavoring to write a narrative. I care not if such diction is in vogue or not. What matters here is simply the retention of a person throughout an entire narrative while maintaining a development of the person that coincides with the dénouement of the narrative.

On the other hand, how might there be personal continuity, if the chronology is scrambled? In this case the development of the person does not coincide with the dénouement of the narrative in any straightforward way. If the chronology is scrambled, then it is up to the reader or hearer to piece together jagged fragments. I recently read Absalom, Absalom! and this was the case. I must say piecing together vague and unreliable fragments of Thomas Sutpen did not offer much hope that I would end with a clear portrait of Sutpen. But I suppose that even with an “ordered” chronology I may not end with a clear portrait of this person named Natasha. However, that I am supposing there is a Sutpen to piece together is precisely my problem. No matter if the chronology is scrambled, I am still supposing there is a person to unscramble, and that seems to insinuate that there is some sort of obvious and elusive personal continuity.

Am I merely seeking to discern an arcane shroud that lies behind the name? Is there not a shroud to be discerned? Well, that there is the story would seem to suggest that there is a shroud to be discerned. Of course, there are innumerable variables and philosophies at play in each of these narratives, so I do not mean to suppose that they are basically the same. Furthermore, I do not mean to ignore the various philosophies at play. However, I do wish to begin to discern how personal continuity might be established when writing a narrative. At the end of a story, a writer will surely ask, “Is this protagonist one or twenty persons?”

“Whence is personal continuity?” Perhaps, my question is much ado about nothing or is simply barking up the wrong tree. But even so, Flannery O’Connor still sat down in front of her typewriter for two hours each morning and wrote stories about people who by the end seemed to have become our acquaintances.

Everybody is King!

Human autonomy is a parody of God’s sovereignty.

“I am going to live my life.” This is a common statement that often leads to disappointment or dissatisfaction.

Have churches taken a ride on this leech? Perhaps. Acting as the parasite that it is, it has taken a ride on the church, infiltrating and sucking life out of the church. Has it done so largely unnoticed? Churches even seem to encourage this mentality. “Live your life to the fullest!” I don’t recall when Abraham was called to such a life. I don’t recall when David was called to such a life. And I don’t recall when Jesus called disciples to such a life. Abraham was called to obedience. David was called to obedience – Saul was dispensed for his disobedience. And Jesus calls people to obedience; they do not call him.

We have made crowns by the thousands, even millions, and have crowned ourselves. Like printing our own money, we are killing ourselves with inflation. We have traded in the King for paper crowns from the local Burger King. Yet, we lack to notice that pretending to be our own kings in the back yard does not annul the fact that the King is still the King and we are playing in the King’s backyard.

We parade our autonomy as if it is real and not a mere paper crown. Our declared autonomy makes of us not kings but clowns riding unicycles. We print more crowns and paint our faces all in the spirit of autonomy. After all, “it’s my life.”

Jesus does not call disciples to their best life now. He calls them to the most dangerous life now, which is not their life, albeit it is the best life. He calls them to relinquish autonomy and to pick up crosses in order to form a cruciform community. He calls his family people who obey the will of the Father. He then commissions them to be dependent on the generosity and mercy of others. Paper crowns seem not to be among the options.

I am reminded of Kierkegaard’s Either/Or volume 2. An old judge speaks of faithfulness, commitment, and duty. In the first volume, however, a young man speaks of the need for amusement. Arbitrariness and brief relationships are among the catalysts for amusement lest boredom ensue. With our alleged autonomy, it seems we have become more like the young man who would rather not speak of things such as duty, responsibility, commitment, faithfulness, and surely not obedience. Such things are for people without crowns. But we have crowned ourselves and need not childish notions such as obedience! It comes as little surprise then that following Jesus is something that “I might do for a little while until something else more interesting and spiritually enriching comes around.”

We wish to supplant God, and yet all we seem able to do is to trade God’s sovereignty for paper hats and face paint, pretending that this changes everything.

Irony at the Airport.

I am caught by irony at the airport. It’s not a place I would choose to go, but alas I must. However, each time I go to the airport, I am pleasantly surprised. With each visit, I find myself with room to laugh amidst the jumbles of people. Again, I must emphasize the airport is not a place I would choose to spend excessive amounts of time. However, it is absolutely hilarious. It’s the one place where middle and upper class Americans unashamedly sprawl out on the grimy carpet for a nap. There are many germy mysteries in the carpet, but the carpet is good enough for a nap nonetheless. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Upon arriving at the airport, it’s all rush and chaos and lines and cluelessness and stress. People look down at their flight information that they printed at home and then back up at the apparently confusing signs that indicate which airlines are which. And then when it’s settled, it’s time to wait in line, awkwardly shuffling overstuffed luggage with each step forward. It’s seems as if that man in front of me despises the clothes he packed.

After being sufficiently baptized into the airport by the check-in lines, it’s time for the notorious security checkpoint. This is what airports are known for. If you’re with a group, then at least one person is going to get stopped. The question is “who will it be this time?” “I just hope it’s not me!” It’s time to take off your shoes and belt. You begin to walk forward and then you hear a loud beeping. You realize there’s loose change in your pocket. Oh well, maybe next time.

The security checkpoint is finished. What’s next? It’s lots of people looking around as if suddenly struck with the inability to read large signs with simple print. And then after discerning the seemingly arcane meaning of those strange signs written in crayon, people race off to their “gate.” Why is it called a “gate” anyway? Why not call it a “portal”? But then again, this is the twenty-first century, so I suppose we could call it a “door.” This may be my favorite part of the airport experience because as I sit and wait at the “gate” I finally have the opportunity to take in my surroundings. At the airport, people dress all sorts of ways. Some dress as if they have just left a business meeting and perhaps they have, while others seemed to have just rolled out of bed. Still others seem to be on a hike! It’s confusing because then I don’t know if I’m underdressed or overdressed for the occasion. Should I have worn shiny shoes or hiking boots? Or should I have dressed as that older gentleman with extra short khaki shorts and tall dress socks with white sneakers?

Once at the “gate,” everyone sits and waits and waits and waits. Then I begin to laugh. All that rush to sit and wait and wait and wait! And then, as if it’s fate itself speaking, someone (a mythical figure at the airport) announces that it is time to board the plane! People swarm to the “gate” only to wait again until their section number is called. My favorite guy at the airport is the guy who races to the front of the line blocking out everyone else, and then he is the last one to be called to board the plane. He epitomizes the airport’s rush to wait mentality.

Once on the plane, the airline reiterates its low expectation of the travelers’ competency by instructing us on the proper procedure of buckling a seatbelt. Thank you airline. I only wish you had been there this morning when I got in the car. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Connecting flights are similar to referees. If everything goes well, you don’t notice. But if you miss your flight or a referee misses a call, it’s a serious offense! But it seems connecting flights and referees are each needed in their own way.

The baggage claim area is a mixed bag so to speak. It’s the best of times and the worst of times. Different people have different ways of waiting for their bag(s). Some folks seem rather indifferent, as if they despise whomever it was who packed the bag they are consequently required to pick up. Conversely, others wait as if on the edge of their seat curious what it is that the airline has in store for them. I remember one particular occasion my bag had been “lost.” I would’ve like to have asked who lost my bag, but it seems as though my bag had been placed on the wrong plane by a phantom.

The airport is hilarious. I can think of no other place that has such a potential for such a diverse collection of people, and as a consequence it has the potential for the most unexpected hilarity along with perennial hilarity. It’s a stage of comedy where the world converges with the sole purpose of diverging.

An Incomplete Reflection for the Church’s Consideration

Changes have taken place in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Many have nodded with approval, while others have been horrified and have leapt overboard. In the following I shall speak as an evangelical who holds the biblical text to be an authoritative text for the church. And I am speaking primarily to evangelicals in this denomination. This is unequivocally an incomplete reflection, for there are many sides to the goings on in the Presbyterian Church on which I shall not touch.

Christians are often hypocrites in many areas. We evangelicals, in particular, have an abysmal track record with tithing, among other things. That needs to change. Before an evangelical opens his or her mouth with any sort of rebuke towards anyone, the evangelical tithing trend needs to change. Currently, it’s embarrassing and shameful. Spirituality is a wisp of air without generosity and self-giving, and yet we evangelicals continue the scandal of wispy spirituality and self-indulgence. In this regard, we evangelicals need to stop mincing doctrinal words and need to add some oomph to our game.

The Christian life is one of perpetual confession and repentance – marriage is teaching me this. Messy situations do not call for escape. They call for grace, mercy, patience, repentance, reconciliation, and cleanup, among other things. We Americans prefer escapism to repentance and reconciliation. In this regard, we evangelicals should try being a little less American.

How many stones were cast in John 8? I suggest, instead of picking up stones, we pick up our crosses. Instead of taking the dust out of the other’s eye, we practice self-examination. Instead of condemnation, we live in faithful obedience striving for righteousness.

Over the years, I have admired most those who continue to do what they believe is right, though everyone around them seems to be adding to the moral cacophony. These sorts of people are analogous to lighthouses. A lighthouse is not needed in the daytime, but at night when the seas rage and threaten life itself, a lighthouse needs to shine as bright as it possibly can. This means not avoiding the darkness and the storms but shining through them and in spite of them.

The Way and the American Way

I am a naïve seminarian who lacks wisdom and experience. However, I have two eyes and a heart, two eyes that see and a heart that feels. I wanted to write this blog before I accrued too much American common sense and ingenuity.

While reflecting before actually writing this blog, I nearly wept thinking about these things. We in America have done the very thing the prophets warned about. We have built temples for ourselves declaring them to be in worship of God (Yahweh). Helping ourselves get away with murder, we have conveniently spiritualized Yahweh’s wishes for justice and peace. Instead of seeking to be a community of tangible justice, we have sought to be a well-ordered corporation with peaceful “souls.” The community of saints has devolved into a pseudo-saintly institution – this sentence is pregnant with sorrow. Jesus’ teachings have been spiritualized, and consequently righteousness is understood as something intangible, something “spiritual.” Since being made intangible, righteousness need not be enacted by the Christian community, for “righteousness is nothing more than what Jesus transfuses to us.” Jesus may have done such a thing, but is not the community to live righteously? And what does this mean? Is it righteous for the Christian community to spend millions of dollars on its temples and to give fifty cents to those in need? Is it righteous for our American dreams to trample the marginalized? This seems more akin to worship of mammon than of Yahweh.

Things must change in American churches, if American churches wish not to slip into irrelevance and hypocrisy, which it seems already to have done. This change will not happen overnight. It will take the extreme effort of many people over a period of time. But change must happen nonetheless. This change must be theological and practical.

American churches must do the truly “spiritual” thing and seek righteousness, living according to the Way. American churches might takes notes from some of the early Christians and some of our contemporary Christian brothers and sisters in other parts of the world. Perhaps, some might say that we have evolved since the early church. To that, I must say that, though the early churches were not free of problems, we seemed to have devolved and shame on us.

American churches must be what the church was called to be, and with a prophetic voice, the church must speak out against the injustices so common in our society, so common that we have grown accustom to them and render them as simply “part of the ways things are.” But we are not called to be a community that walks along the path of the way things are. We are called to be a cruciform community that revolts against the way things are.

Shall we continue to be a corporation that walks down the path of the American way or shall we be a resurrection community that walks up the path of our master, Jesus the righteous?

Artistry and Theology

I write this blog as a novice in almost every sense of the word, as one who is traveling through an M.Div. Nearing the end of my first year of three, it strikes me as quite peculiar that we in the arcane field of theology are not taught artistry. Any artistry we might have been taught is apparently supplanted by priority for truth. But I daresay, is not truth creative? And should we not consequently be taught to articulate truth creatively? Should not the spheres of the theologian and poet collide?

And that brings me to a particular person, who posed a particular question and who received a particular response.

“What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

…

“And who is my neighbor?”

In response, Jesus proceeded to tell a parable. Why is it that Jesus told a parable in response? I don’t know. But I’d wager a guess that perhaps Jesus opted to tell a parable because he did not want to spend the next hundred years writing an arid discourse in response (he allowed for the next two thousand years’ worth of theologians with multiple PhD’s to do that). Of course, I am being facetious, but not entirely.

Theologians ill trained?

And so what have we with these ill trained theologians? Uninteresting dullards preaching from the pulpits to uninterested congregations in the pews. It’s a charade.

Are we to boil down truth to its “essence”? Are we to boil down truth until nothing is left? We are boiling down truth so that it evaporates into thin air in search of someone more interesting. And yet theologians boil down the truth so that it may be rearticulated “in more precise form.” Precise? Perhaps, empty and insipid. I do not contend that theologians have ill gotten goods but ungotten goods!

It thus seems to me that if an M.Div., and just about any theological education for that matter, is to carry any weight, then it must involve more of life. It must involve artistry. It must involve the poetic. Is not creation itself poetic? And if that is the case, then true theology is inherently poetic.

Here are our thoughts, voyagers’ thoughts.

Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by

Them be said,

The sky o’erarches, we feel the undulating deck beneath

Our feet,

We feel the long pulsation, ebb and flow of endless motion,

The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of

The briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables,

The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm,

The boundless vista and the horizon far and dim are all here,

And this is ocean’s poem.

Will the rocks shout out? They already are.

Theopoetics

A single voice asks, “What is truth?” And thousands, millions, billions answer in response. In the east they answer with chants, dances, and riddles, and in the west they answer with analytic discourses, arid charades, and pseudo-theological chicanery.

My gospels professor said earlier this quarter, “People who read poetry will be better readers of the gospels…” I thought he was being facetious. As the quarter has progressed, I have realized he was serious and have realized the wisdom in his pronouncement.

A line of poetry or a paragraph of story cannot be matched by a volume of discourse, however well articulated it may be. It is poetry that plumbs the depths of truth and surfaces again without losing an ounce, an ounce of something true. And it is the person who reads poetry and it is the poets themselves who plumb the depths resurfacing in silence. In silence because it was in the depths that truth was spoken and having since resurfaced they are appropriately silent.

Much ink, sweat, and blood is spilled every generation answering the question, “What is truth?” But I say, “Let truth be truth lest it be dismantled into something else.”

“What is truth?” Ask a poet I say, ask a poet!

A Few Formative Years

Mud six inches thick. It swallows your ankles and threatens to take your knees too. Every step is a comprehensive bodily effort. Finally, some drier mud to sit on. Buzzing overhead. That’s the sound of bullets. Every few seconds a whistling sound and then an explosion and dirt flies everywhere. It’s difficult to see with the smoke. Another corpse missing two legs and a head. The blood and mud mingle into a dark muck. It’s just another day in the trenches.

My favorite show comes on in three minutes. “Hey mom, is dinner ready yet? I’m gonna eat in here.” Cool breeze. That’s the air condition. It’s Monday and can’t wait for the weekend. Nothing to do but chill and watch tv. Maybe go out with friends and catch a movie, maybe play pool. It’s just another day in my palace.

Both are happening simultaneously in the lives of American teenagers. The war wages on and yet many of them live like royalty with a parent to serve them.

I am still young, but I am just high enough on the “age-hill” to look back on my teenage years with some bewilderment. I have mixed feelings about those years. Some times I refer to my teenage years as my own personal “Dark Ages,” which is completely accurate – however, I do not think historically speaking it is accurate to call the medieval period the “Dark Ages,” but that’s another matter entirely. When I look back on my teenage years, I have no clue how I made it out alive and in one piece, albeit I took some shrapnel in both my legs and my chest, metaphorically speaking of course. I think I made it out alive by some stroke of luck or providence, whichever you prefer. In either case, I feel as though I had little to do with it.

It strikes me as rather strange that those few years can make or break a person’s life. Or perhaps those years do not make or break a person’s life, but those years impact the trajectory of a person’s life to a large extent.

It would almost seem that I should run around to every teenager I see to tell them that they just need to try to survive those teenage years doing as few puerile things as possible lest they be swept away into dark ally ways and dank dungeons for the rest of their lives; and it will be for the rest of their lives that they have to think about it.

It’s survival. It’s life in the trenches and bullets are buzzing overhead. One peak over the crest of the trench and that could be the end. It’s life in a palace and one too many movies and you might wake up eighty-five years old without a credit to your name, apart from successfully asking your parents for gas money.

Yet it seems impossible for an American teenager to realize the profundity of their predicament. Needless to say that is why so many take a peek over the crest of the trench to be met with a cold metal bullet between the eyes. That is why so many seep into their late twenties playing video games for the majority of their days. Thus, it is these formative teenage years that strike me as most scary, scary because though there are many things to worry about in my pseudo-adulthood it’s the teenagers who are in the trenches and do not even realize it. That’s the scariest aspect of all: that they do not even realize they are in the trenches! And they seem incapable of realizing it. They dance along the edge of a knife without a care, for they haven’t a clue that one misstep will cut them in two – imagine the trajectory of that. They tap-dance on the edge of a cliff as if they are in the prime of their life with little to nothing at stake. And yet everything is stake!

What then is to be done? Maybe a bulletproof vest to start?

Again, I must emphasize that I am a young and naïve seminary student with little experience outside of school. However, I must add that I have some experience in the teenage trenches as well as the teenage palaces. And those years were not so long ago for me, though they seem like a lifetime ago.

Sometimes the best thing to do when you’re lost is to get a guide who knows the territory. Those who survived those formative years might try to partner up with those who are still in the trenches and seemed to have lost their way. It’s not much, but it is a start.

A Recovery of the Prophetic

Last fall quarter I studied Jeremiah and Ezekiel, and I recently began reading Abraham Heschel’s book, The Prophets. Needless to say the prophets of the first testament have been churning in my mind. Perhaps, many folks today do not think of Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Habakkuk when they think of prophecy, but that is directly where my mind goes, especially Jeremiah.

God brought the people out of captivity into a land that would be their own. They were unfaithful to God’s wishes, and thus they relinquished the honor of living in the land. They were taken into exile. The prophets are speaking before, during, and after exile. They are speaking to an unfaithful people and reminding them of God’s faithfulness and God’s expectations for them. God requires that they be characterized by love and justice, among other things. They failed. Thus, they will remain in exile for a time, and eventually they will be redeemed. God will be their God, and they will be God’s people. God will lead them back to the land, as a father leading his son.

But I must ask, how precisely were they unfaithful? A short answer may be idolatry. However, what does that mean and for what particular behaviors is their community condemned to exile? I would suggest reading all of Amos (it is short after all), but here is a taste.

Amos 4:1, 5:11-12, 14-15

Hear this word, you cows of Bashan on Mount Samaria, you women who oppress the poor and crush the needy and say to your husbands, “Bring us some drinks!”

You levy a straw tax on the poor 
and impose a tax on their grain. Therefore, though you have built stone mansions, you will not live in them; 
though you have planted lush vineyards, 
you will not drink their wine. 
For I know how many are your offenses and how great your sins.

There are those who oppress the innocent and take bribes and deprive the poor of justice in the courts. Seek good, not evil, that you may live. Then the LORD God Almighty will be with you, just as you say he is. Hate evil, love good; maintain justice in the courts. 
Perhaps the LORD God Almighty will have mercy....

These pericopes are obviously multilayered, and it would be wrong to suppose that a single reading captures everything they have to offer. Of course, there are innumerable differences between their situation and ours (one may be that religious life and political life were bound together, and today we good ole post-enlightment geniuses compartmentalize these). I will not attempt to innumerate the differences. However, we may glean from the prophets still. We may locate ourselves with those who are in the temple courts. How do our multimillion-dollar temples stand in the face of the prophets? Our structures stand to be rebuked. The words and actions of God reverberate through the words and deeds of the prophets, and if we are honest, those words and deeds are aimed at structures such as ours. Has the temple become a den of robbers? How is the temple regime in the twenty-first century dealing with the oppressed? Is today’s temple regime a witness to its God?

My Old Testament professor in the fall quarter said, “it is often difficult to speak with a prophetic voice when you are on the payroll of the church, so surround yourself with people who are not on the payroll” who will speak out with a prophetic voice. This is wisdom. Perhaps because today's temple leadership is on the payroll, today’s temple leadership often slips into lesser versions of Jesus, exclusively spiritualized ones.

God’s love is to bounce off and through the walls of people’s hearts, minds, and relationships. God’s love, however scorching or comforting, is to pervade the manifold life of the temple. But what does this mean and how is this to be? How might today’s temple regime recover its prophetic voice and action? For clues, we would do well to take a look at Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Habakkuk (among others).

Woe to him who builds a city with

Bloodshed and establishes

A town by injustice!

Though the fig tree does not bud and there are

No grapes on the vine…

But I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will rejoice in God my savior.

Habakkuk 2:12, 3:17-18

You will seek me and find me

When you seek me with all

Your heart.

Jeremiah 29:13

A Few Variegated and Disjointed Words Concerning a Path of Least Resistance

Some of us have trekked down the cloudy road of doubt, while others have continued on sunnier roads. For those who have walked along the dreary path perhaps a brief reflection will serve as a flashlight, however infinitesimal it may be (even such a small flashlight is better than none at all).

Doubt is analogous to a lens and when looking through it everything seems most dubitable. It is similar to a grey lens through which the entire world seems bleak and pointless. And then having grown accustom to the company of doubt’s seemingly honest company, the easiest thing in the world to do is to doubt, to doubt even oneself – that French mental magician, whose name I shall not mention, set an unfortunate precedent. In a way doubt becomes a self-perpetuating vacuum sucking inward. Even oneself is sucked into doubt, obliterating oneself.

Doubt is synergetic. It may be similar to a quagmire. If a person sinks into a deep muck and tries to wiggle free, the person will only sink further. It has been said that doubt begets doubt. This may not be too far off the mark, though a dose of doubt about some things may be good medicine to avoid gullibility, but I think at that point it’s not doubt anymore. It’s merely discernment. So doubt, in a sense, breeds itself, and once it begins it spreads growing stickier and stickier.

For some of us, doubt may be considered a path of least resistance. For some of us, it is a propensity. This is dangerous, for, though a measure of doubt may be good medicine as previously mentioned, doubt seems to be “engineered” in such a way that it can hijack human resources (such as reason, emotion, psyche, etc.) for their own self-destruction. In this way, doubt is analogous to the viciousness of cancer.

An ethics professor said during a lecture last fall, “Without community, we wither.” This is wisdom. Of course, “community” does not refer to arbitrary or affected groupings of individuals but of an authentically interrelated composite (though composed of individuals, the whole is distinct from the individuals individually) – let community be defined and judged not according to quantity of relationships but of quality. This composite can be synergetic, and this synergetic communion is, at least in part, an answer to the withering reality of doubt. A person must reach out for help from others in order to get out of the deep muck – this may not be the only way, but it is a way. Open dialogue within the context of authentic (unaffected) community is a healthy alternative and anodyne for the easy though treacherous path of doubt.

Kierkegaard’s technical use of the term “despair” and my generic use of the term “doubt” are not synonymous. However, as a tangential conclusion, I will parallel them here. When the despairer (I will not explain which sort of despairer, but you may read The Sickness Unto Death for further understanding on the issue) confides his despair to another, he despairs further. His despair intensifies. But let this not be a deterrence from confiding, for acknowledging despair and then confiding is of infinite value; it is the first step. The same goes for doubt. If it catches a person in isolation, it systematically appropriates and consequently disintegrates everything in its viselike clutches. However, if doubt is pinpointed and acknowledged, the low-hanging clouds may part, perhaps only for a moment, allowing a ray of sun to illumine the path.