Learning to Lie

When I was young, my mom paid me to read books. She would pay me by the page, and so I tended to pick either thick books or mounds of thin books. On one particular occasion, I piled up a stack of books and proceeded to negotiate with her for a new mountain bike. We came to an agreement, and I began reading through the rather tall stack of books. It was slow going, slower than I would have liked. That new mountain bike remained at the forefront of my mind the entire time. After making some progress through the mountain of books, I came upon an idea, a simple idea with a high reward. I decided to lie. I decided to wait another week or two and then to tell my mom I had finished reading all the books.

My plan worked smoothly and without a single flaw or suspicion. I had my new mountain bike and nobody was the wiser. Everything about the bike was perfect. It had the gears, breaks, and shocks I wanted. I rode it all over the place, and one day a friend and I raced on the country road between my house and our church. The road was about a mile long and was really rough. It was mostly just tar and gravel. We raced down the first big hill and kept going faster and faster, and we continued peddling as hard as we could down the next hill.

Then a fateful thing happened. My right foot slipped off the pedal and into the spokes of the front wheel. The front wheel came to a lurching halt. I was sent hurtling over the handlebars, and I imagine my legs were flailing as my body flipped in the air. I landed face first onto the knife-like gravel and tar road. I blacked out, and I barely remember any of it. When I regained consciousness and began to get up, I couldn’t feel my lower lip. I turned to my friend and asked, “Am I bleeding? Is my lip still there?” I panicked and began scanning the road for my lower lip. I didn’t see my lip on the road, so I got back on my bike and pedaled as hard as I could back up the big hill and back home.

I burst into the front door, and I am sure blood was dripping everywhere though I do not remember much about it. I went to the bathroom to look in the mirror to check my lip, to see if it was still there. My mom came in wondering what was going on. She saw blood everywhere and the imprint of the road on my forehead. I had a split from my bottom lip down to my chin, not to mention numerous other cuts all over my face.

My mom began to bandage me, and I felt guilty. My stomach was in knots, and I felt a lump in my throat. It was difficult to get around the lump in my throat, but I managed. I cleared my throat, and I told her everything, though there was not much to tell. I told her I had lied about finishing the books. I had read about half of them and lied about the rest.

It was the perfect opportunity for my mom to teach me about the consequences of lying. It was my first new bike, and though I do not have that bike anymore I still have a scar right below my lower lip.

A Jewish rabbi whose name currently evades me said, “Bad guys don’t get away with what they do. We all pay for what we do with one currency or another.”

Les Miserables: “the immense”

Like War and Peace, Les Miserables is a book that many people reference but few people read. Both books each seem longer than Webster’s dictionary, which is reason enough for people to avoid them. To compare them would perhaps be a temptation, but they are as different as they are long.

In recent weeks, I have trekked through the fields and allies of Les Miserables, and I am beginning to think that even if people begin to read it they will not finish it simply because Hugo spends so many pages providing “back stories” for the characters. This, however, does not detract from the narrative; in my opinion, it adds layers to the story.

It would seem that the twentieth century would have us believe that there is one way to go about writing a novel: showing the story that the reader might eavesdrop. Hugo, however, has reminded me that there is a real art and beauty in telling a story. Layer after layer, Les Miserables unfolds divulging events from various persons’ lives that converge into conflict, terror, and redemption. It’s a five-act play with all the drama and irony Shakespeare could imagine.  

It’s no secret that I enjoy reading novels and that Dostoevsky is my favorite novelist. It would likely make sense then that I make a smattering of comments contrasting Hugo’s Les Miserables with bits of Dostoevsky’s corpus. First, however, a few notes of similarity are in order. Both seem to focus on the underbelly of society, and this focus sets a variety of trajectories that color the complexions of their respective narratives. In this bleak context of criminality and moral ambiguity, both paint poignant pictures of abuse, neglect, and deliverance of women – consider for a moment the tragic stories of Fantine in Les Miserables and Sonya in Crime and Punishment. This is especially appropriate considering it is most often women’s abuse that is ignored. There are numerous other similarities, but that will suffice for the moment.

Their respective anthropologies are no doubt a point of departure. For Hugo, it would seem that people are basically good and that it is society that grinds people into the sort of corrupt people that would commit abominable crimes. This would almost seem to be the case in Crime and Punishment, but Dostoevsky does not quite give us the luxury. Because the protagonist of Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov, is a destitute student at the end of his rope who then commits murder, we might be inclined to deduce that like Hugo Dostoevsky shows Raskolnikov to be a product of a system that failed him. However, as the story builds, Dostoevsky shows Raskolnikov’s motives for crime to be sundry and inscrutable (in a letter to a friend, Dostoevsky admits that even he does not know why Raskolnikov committed the murder). Unlike Hugo, for Dostoevsky humans are not basically good. For Dostoevsky, rich and poor alike are prone to crime and/or immorality. Dostoevsky’s anthropology of rather cynical ambiguity and depravity seems to be at a different point of the spectrum from Hugo’s. It may prove illuminating for future considerations if Hugo’s focus on systemic complicity and Dostoevsky’s focus on personal complicity are held together.

This then sets the stage for another point of difference: the path to redemption. Because Hugo is in the business of disparaging the corrupt justice system, it is precisely the corrupt system that must break down before Jean Valjean can be free. For Jean Valjean good deeds, escape, and the cessation of the system’s pursuit shall pave the road to redemption. However, Jean Valjean still battles with his conscience even when he evades the justice system. In contrast, it is the justice system that paves the road to redemption for Raskolnikov; for Raskolnikov confession and prison shall be the road to redemption. In my judgment, it seems that the breakdown of corrupt systems and confession could beneficially be held together. For both Hugo and Dostoevsky, conscience is a major player in the lives of their protagonists, albeit the justice system is portrayed variously.

Intertwined with their respective anthropologies and their notions of redemption are their exemplar humans or Christ figures. Setup as the exemplar in Les Miserables is the Christ-like bishop who rides on a donkey and who quite literally cares for the poor and disenfranchised. This seems to focus on Jesus’ acts towards the poor – e.g. see the gospel of Luke: the gospel is for the poor. And by the end of Les Miserables, Jean Valjean the convict has evolved into an angel and Christ-figure from the seed that the bishop planted at the beginning of the novel. In The Idiot the Christ figure is a protagonist who basically lacks common sense not because the protagonist is stupid but because the protagonist has not been corrupted by the “common sense” of the world; for example, the protagonist is completely naïve in regards to relations with women. This seems to focus on Jesus’ sinlessness. It seems that their Christ figures bespeak their differing anthropologies: while Hugo focuses on acts of justice, Dostoevsky focuses on innocence.

There are numerous other comparisons that could be mentioned, but these are merely a few considerations that kept cropping up in my mind as I meandered through the shadowy cobblestone streets, dank sewers, and battlefields of Les Miserables.

Les Miserables is a touching story of abuse and healing, and it is no surprise that quite a few movies have been “based” on this story. It’s a story about the evolution of a galley slave becoming an angel, a convict becoming a christ. It’s one of the most memorable stories in world literature. I would like to recommend this novel. However, considering that we live in an age of sound bytes, I suspect almost nobody would be too keen on having such an immense adventure.

Old People and Big Books

In America we often sweep our parents off to the side and out of the way, lest they slow us down. It seems that we forget that old people have lived life and know a thing or two. We forget that they have already climbed life’s tallest mountains and explored life’s deepest and darkest caves.

In America we like aphoristic books with pretty covers, though they don’t say much of anything. They merely give us equivocal anthems to post on our bathroom mirror or on our status update. There’s no substantial content, just a wisp of ephemeral air tantamount to a fart.

Old people and big books are alike in some ways. They are like treasure chests frequently teeming with wit and wisdom. Unfortunately for us, we in America seem to dislike old people and big books. We prefer young people with enthusiasm, and we prefer thin books with clever titles. Neither young people nor thin books generally have much wisdom to offer.

Old people belong in the mainstream of culture, and big books should be the thrones on which they sit. They should be our philosopher kings, but alas we prefer anarchy as long as the anarchy is shiny, bright, and young.

Of course, I’m being a bit facetious. But this past Sunday after church I had lunch with several older gentlemen from church, and it was fascinating and amusing to hear them talk about all sorts of things not least among their stories were their misadventures in China. Listening to them talk made me think it odd that we younger people don’t do more listening.

In a culture infatuated with prolonging youth, we shouldn’t forget that older folks have stories to tell, and we younger folks may do well to sit and listen.

The Sophisticated Audacity of Atheism and Dostoevsky

The "masses" believe in God. In fact so much so, that the masses develop all sorts of quasi-theistic superstitions founded on their vaguely theistic beliefs. It is little surprise then that various flavors of atheists consider themselves rather sophisticated for moving beyond the folk religion of the masses, for they, atheists of various sorts, are countercultural and thereby must know something or have come to some sort of realization, which is superior to that of the masses. Some atheists may then see themselves as brave heroes daring to lay siege on the seemingly imperturbable fortress of ignorance. However, this confidence exudes the modern stench of progress, which is nothing more than a disappointing fairytale like the belief in Santa Clause, albeit it is a fairytale that many of our American politicians still pretend has some credence. Such confidence is like that of a scuba diver deciding to take off his oxygen mask at the bottom of the ocean if for no other reason than the possibility of discovering the needlessness of the oxygen mask. However, first it might not hurt to scan the bottom of the ocean and to see the many skeletons that decorate the dark craters of the ocean’s gloomy landscape.

Today’s “new atheism” has all the newness of yesterday.

It is hardly uncommon for "new atheists" of various sorts to find fault with religious institutions. There have been and will be abuses within various religious institutions. It may be more illuminating, however, to find fault with humanity. But that is what religion often does, and far be it from an atheist to fault humanity in general.       

Dostoevsky went to great lengths to illustrate the bankruptcy of the modern atheism that was pervading his Russia, and I think he did well by not showing it to be merely insipid intellectually but by showing it to be rather inhumane. His rival Turgenev sought to portray atheism as a sort of liberation of humanity as do many atheists today. In response, Dostoevsky showed that what Turgenev considered to be liberation was actually a path leading to lunacy and death (e.g. Ivan and Smerdyakov in The Brothers Karamazov). For Dostoevsky, atheism was not only bankrupt it was poisonous. This ethos surfaces throughout his novels perhaps most notably in Demons (otherwise entitled Devils and The Possessed depending on your translation). At the beginning of the novel is Luke 8:32-36, a reference to swine being possessed by demons and drowning. This sets the complexion of the novel and adumbrates its dénouement. Dostoevsky was caustic towards the atheism that was spreading across his Russia not because he was insular but because he saw and felt its danger. The structures of life were being threatened by all sorts of atheistic isms (sundry ideologies ending with “ism”), and the structures of life were not being replaced by anything other than vague and arbitrary autonomy that critiqued its very own foundations. For Dostoevsky the vision of the isms was shortsighted and was a short road leading only to death.  

Korean Drama and Jesus

This title makes me chuckle. Last night Esther and I finished watching a Korean love story. First of all I should admit, I was slow in being drawn into the story. I missed most of the first few episodes because it seemed terribly uninteresting. However, somewhere along the line, I found myself transfixed and unequivocally invested in the story.

I would very much like to recap the entire story here. However, that would take a series of blogs, and in that case you might as well just watch the show. Let me suffice it to say: two friends, a young girl and a boy grow up together in meager circumstances in rural Korea. She needs heart surgery, if she has any chance of living. The boy’s father is a scoundrel and steals the money for her surgery. The mother of the girl then searches for the boy’s father in Seoul that she might recover the money for her daughter’s surgery. In the process, the mother is hit by a car and dies. To make matters worse, the boy’s father abandons him. The young boy cares dearly for the young girl, but he doesn’t know what to do because they are penniless. He attempts to steal a lady’s purse, but he is immediately caught. As it turns out, he looks strikingly similar to a wealthy couple’s recently deceased son. The wife is suicidal after losing her son, so the husband tells the young boy that he will pay for the young girl’s surgery if he, the young boy, agrees to become their son. The young boy agrees, but they take him away before he is able to find out if the surgery was a success. They tell him the young girl died during the surgery. However, fifteen years later, he discovers that she didn’t die at all. The story continues with a feeble seed of hope.

I do not want to diminish the magnitude of laying down one’s life for another – “no one demonstrates greater love than this.” Dickens captures this notion well in A Tale of Two Cities. In fact, I imagine that there are many stories that have utilized the notion of dying for the sake of another. However, I think there is something to be said about living a whole life of sacrifice, and I do not mean merely being subservient in rhetoric and disposition. I mean trading in one’s own life and identity that another might live, like the young boy trading in all that he was that the young girl might have a chance at life. For me this was the most striking aspect of the story: that the young boy would give his whole life over to strangers that the young girl might have some hope of life.

Before I go a step further, let it be said that I do not go about baptizing movies and TV shows, and I do not like pretending that this and that movie have biblical analogs (many people have done that with The Lord of the Rings, which to my understanding is in direct conflict with Tolkien).

That said, after finishing the show last night, I found myself naturally wandering into the land of the Gospels. The Son came and dwelt among us as Jesus of Nazareth. I am fully aware of the many Christological heresies that would ensnare me, if I were to draw direct parallels between the young boy in the Korean drama and Jesus. I have no intention of attempting to draw consistent parallels between the Gospels and the Korean drama as a whole. But in a sense, the Son sacrificially traded in his identity that humanity might be drawn into life, perhaps similar to the young boy allowing himself to be essentially kidnapped that the young girl might have the life-saving surgery. When we think of the Son’s sacrifice, we often think of Jesus’ death, but I think we would do well to take heed of Jesus’ earthly life as a whole that we might then be drawn into the Son’s overwhelming and rather incomprehensible life-long sacrifice.

I wonder if this might also shed light on Christian life.

Suffering and the Presence of God

I remember when the phone range and my mom answered it. It was the doctor. There was silence. She hung up and walked into the living room. I remember standing, waiting for an explanation. She told us that she had been diagnosed with cancer. It felt like the world had imploded, but strangely it hadn’t. It felt like life had ended, but strangely we woke up the next morning the same as before. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, I felt like my world had come crashing down, perhaps analogous to what many people felt on 9/11. For many long and excruciating weeks, my mom endured chemotherapy. I remember sometimes going with her to treatments and sitting with her on the bed. I didn’t have much to say, and there wasn’t much I could do. Most of the time, I just sat there with her.

I shall not build a theodicy. That is for someone else to do. But I will say that if a theodicy begins and ends “on paper,” then it isn’t a theodicy at all. Formulas, theorems, and syllogisms do no service for a mother who loses her daughter or for a son who loses his father or for a wife who loses her husband.

In The Sickness Unto Death, Kierkegaard sheds light on what may be a potentially redeeming quality of suffering. He says, “When life begins to quake, then it is immediately apparent that despair was what was lying beneath” (Penguin Classic, 74-75). It seems then that tragedy can potentially serve as a trigger to realize one’s despair and one’s need for deliverance. However, these words would seem cold and insensitive to anyone who is enduring tragedy and suffering.

Years later, my mom said that during those long weeks and months of cancer and chemotherapy she experienced a closer presence of God than she had ever before. She said, “I felt sorry for everyone else who had to be bustling about.” God was present with her in the midst of her cancer.

When it comes to dwelling in the presence of God, lying in bed with cancer is rather different than vogues in Christian circles that blur the boundaries of entertainment and the holy. I’m not suggesting we adopt a sort of Christian asceticism. But perhaps when it comes to dwelling in the presence of God, we are a bit off kilter and even upside down. Perhaps, we have forgotten to take off our shoes and childish desires. Instead, we have “satisfied” ourselves with sugarcoated experiences. It seems that we often associate God’s presence with health and surplus, and we play hot potato with suffering. It’s little surprise then that we in America don’t know what to do or say about the presence of God in the midst of suffering. But the testimonies of many around the world, including my mom, ought to teach us that God is present with those who are suffering, and perhaps they recognize God’s presence better than we who are “bustling about.”

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 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.

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.

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.

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.