When it comes to critiquing new technologies, especially media technologies like the Internet or TV, one often hears a common argument: “The medium itself is morally and socially neutral; what matters is the content.” This underlying philosophy is the reason why concerned parents are worried about the sex and violence in their children’s TV programs and video games, rather than being concerned with the TV or video games themselves. We tend to accept new technologies rather blithely into our lives under the unspoken assumption that they aren’t good or bad in themselves; rather, the messages they carry are what have moral and social significance.
I would like to oppose that philosophy in this post. Technology is not neutral. Although the content of a particular medium is important to consider, we need to be aware of the ways that the medium itself shapes our lives. As the great media-critic Marshall McLuhan said, “The medium is the message.” The clearest instance of this is television. TV is producing a cultural revolution in Western civilization at least comparable to the impact of Gutenberg’s printing press. (And, astonishingly enough, the advent of the Internet may have an even deeper impact in the long run). TV is moving us away from a culture of words, rationality, and focused, linear thought to a culture of images, emotion, and rapid-connection, multitasking thought. Consider what television has done to presidential elections—now not only are such rational marathons as the famous Lincoln-Douglas debates utterly unthinkable, but “image” and personal charisma is at least as important in a candidate as wisdom and discernment. Entertainment is replacing the acquisition of knowledge as a primary focus of life. Our cultural quest is now aimed at experience rather than truth. All of this happens almost regardless of what the content of a particular TV program is—it’s inherent in the nature of TV itself. (The best book to read on this subject is Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death).
It’s actually a fun little exercise, and quite profitable if you have a good imagination and an understanding of history and culture: imagine what our society (or your own life) would look like without a particular technology. Take Microsoft Word (or any word-processing system), the program I’m using to write these thoughts right now. What was writing like before the advent of word processors that allowed in-text editing? Or even before typewriters (some of which also allow in-text corrections)? This is a bit of an exercise of the imagination for me, which gives you a clue as to my young age. Writing without a word processor is a whole different discipline. The rules of grammar and spelling and style are the same, but the process is very different. Here on this computerized picture of a piece of paper, I’m able to spit out thoughts with astonishing speed, and I can revise them whenever and however I want. There’s no need to go back, to rewrite and rewrite until my writing becomes good. I can just patch it up here and there until it’s satisfactory. Writing without word processing would be a slower, more thoughtful process. I would be far more careful with the words I choose. I would think about how I put them together before I actually write them, because if I didn’t, it would mean hours and hours of lengthy rewrites. Is word processing an efficient tool? Of course. Does it make me a better writer? I sincerely doubt it. I think I would be a better writer if I had been trained to write without it. So is Microsoft Word neutral in value? No, it’s not. Simply by its nature, it affects the process and philosophy of writing.
Another example would be cell phones (yet another new-technology area in which I am proudly ignorant and lacking in experience). Cell phones have their benefits, of course—we are all immediately available all the time to one another. When important issues or emergencies come up, we don’t have to worry about whether or not we’ll be able to reach someone. However, the mere fact that we’re all now immediately available to one another is restructuring our society. Our definitions of privacy are being redefined. There is an assumption that because we can be reached by cell phone, we ought to be willing to be reached. Because we are always available, our time and attention ceases to be entirely our own. (Whether it ought to have been considered “our own” at all is another question; the point here is that cell phones are redefining the previous social dynamic of privacy and personal accessibility). Again, this all happens regardless of what is spoken over the phone; it’s inherent in the nature of the technology itself, and it takes an intentional personal philosophy of cell phone use to overcome that inherent tendency.
A few more examples might help to illustrate this principle. Take the technology that records music and makes it marketable to consumers. Until just about a hundred years ago, one needed a musician or a singer, and probably some instruments, to produce music. It was an exercise both in individual artistry and in communal identity. But with recorded music as a mass product, music has lost some of that original meaning. Now it is primarily used in our culture as a means of creating or expressing personal identity. It is an expression of our preferences and tastes as individuals. Even at most concerts nowadays, especially in genres other than classical or folk, the music is an expression of individuality. A concert is a communal gathering, to be sure, but no real community takes place—it’s just a collection of individuals who all have the same personal taste in music, expressing that taste in the anonymity of a crowd. Music has thus lost some of its communal magic. Very seldom is it used anymore as the artistic expression of a local community of people. To understand the true power of music, one needs to join a jam session or a hymn-sing, where music becomes not just a consumer product, but something beautiful that we create together.
One final example might serve to make the point, and this one requires a bit more imagination—what does the technology of reading and writing take away from the experience of being human? We all assume literacy to be an unquestioned good (even those Americans who don’t make much use of it), but when reading and writing first appeared on the scene, they were not always welcomed with joy. For example, the advent of literacy ended (or at least radically changed) the age of the epic poem in ancient Greece, putting the bards and singing poets out of their jobs. Because of literacy, a great art form (one of many that live in oral cultures but not in literate cultures) began to die. More importantly, though, reading and writing changed the way people perceive and acquire knowledge. Because of the ease of gaining new information through reading, old ways of learning were swept out the door. When one could read books on any and every subject, there was not quite the same draw to experience the art or craft for oneself, to be tutored in wisdom and knowledge by our parents and our elders. Where literacy is present, the power of local community as a medium for knowledge is compromised. We begin to see knowledge and understanding as the key to our problems. People buy self-help books, looking to find that until-now-unknown bit of knowledge that will henceforth revolutionize their lives. It doesn’t happen, so they buy another book, hoping to find the magical knowledge there. And so on, and so on, until their shelves are full of worthless books. Or they go to counselors, seeking to gain a deeper understanding of their problems. These are important things, but they fail if practiced on their own. Pre-literate human culture reminds us that knowledge itself is not enough—we must act. We must learn wisdom from the hands and feet of those who are walking the trails ahead of us. And from their example, we need to take action. It’s easy to feel spiritual by reading books about spirituality, but precious few buckle down and practice the hard work of asceticism or intercessory prayer. Reading and writing have such power as a medium—regardless of their content—that they shape our lives and perceptions in all these ways.
Technologies like these are part of the fabric of our lives, and too often we completely ignore their effects on our lives and culture. With each new technology, it’s appropriate to ask the question, “What will we lose?” This is a useful exercise even with those technologies that have been around for ages. What did culture lose with widespread use of the clock? The interstate system? Geographical maps? The Internet?
I’m not arguing that these technologies are bad (obviously, I’m quite a strong fan of reading and writing). Rather, the point is that they have consequences on human culture. These consequences are often unintended and, to a large degree, they proceed without most people taking note of them. But their effects are staggering. So with each such technology, it’s worth asking about those unintended consequences, and then balancing them against the obvious potential benefits. It’s worth asking, “What does this technology do to shape the human experience? Does it help to make me more fully the person that God intended me to be, or does it hinder me toward that goal in any way? Is it a technology that I can control and use as a tool, or does it have the capacity to control and shape me?”
Even if we continue to use these new technologies, this awareness will enable us to practice greater self-regulation and to search for new ways to preserve those areas of culture and human identity that would otherwise be lost. Because we’re aware of the detrimental effects of TV, we can be disciplined about exercising our minds through other, more linear and rational mediums. Because we’re aware of the individualizing nature of mass-marketed music, we can take steps to make music a conscious part of our communal experience. In the end, the best question when faced with a new technology is not, “Is it useful?” or “Is it pleasant?” or even “Does it help me do this job better?” Rather, the best question is, “What will I become because of this?”
Friday, March 20, 2009
Monday, February 09, 2009
Scattered Thoughts (Fiction, Adventure, the Pursuit of God, and Hell)
To my few regular readers, you have my apologies for my neglect of this blog over the past few weeks. Much of my free time has been spent in writing--finishing and revising the third book of my trilogy, the first installment of which is set to come out from OakTara Fiction in the next few months. It was gratifying to finish the project, which has been the focus of my creative writing for the past four years. (And many thanks to my brother Josh for his work in reading, editing, and making suggestions for the manuscripts).
- Among many Americans, and especially among Christians, one of the first questions that comes up against my hobby of writing fiction is "Why waste time making up stories when you could be writing about true, practical, this-world issues?" Unfortunately, this attitude seems to be widespread among Christians, and it comes at me even more sharply when it is revealed that not only am I writing fiction, but I'm writing fantasy. There is a fear encouched here that fantasy is nothing more than time-consuming escapism. Sadly, much of the fantasy on the secular market probably is just that.
But if we neglect fiction--even fantasy fiction--I think we lose a great deal of potential insight. This is especially true for pastors and other ministers of the Gospel. Our position necessitates a certain level of understanding of the human condition and its widely varied experiences. The truth of the matter is that I only get to live one life here on Earth, and so far it has been a pretty steady road for me. I have no intimate, experiential awareness of a broad swath of the tragedy and trials that afflict the great majority of humanity. Fiction helps fill that gap. By reading fiction, I can walk through experiences that are foreign to me, experiences which teach me more about what it means to be human. It challenges me with a perspective on life that is not my own. It provides a wealth of illustrations, drawn from fictional experience, to illuminate the underlying tensions and challenges of my own life. In the engagement of fiction, we are presented with the question that so powerfully arises from the dark circumstances of Defoe's Moll Flanders: "What would you do?"
Further, fiction allows us to represent the questions of faith and philosophy in concrete, rather than abstract, form. Most of us learn truth better from stories than we do from syllogisms, and stories often have a peculiar ability to transcend the level of explanation available in any syllogism. To use an example cited by C. S. Lewis, the tragedy of Oedipus Rex challenges us to consider the relationship between free will and determinism in a way that no philosophical debate ever could.
Fantasy, as a genre of fiction, has great potential for these benefits, since its horizons for creativity are practically unlimited. It is possible to use fantasy to devise scenarios which would presumably never happen in this world, but which speak with deep profundity to the problems we encounter here. As a writer, fantasy also gives me the rich joy of reflecting God's act of creation--to build an entire world, complete with people, cultures, languages, and so on. I would like to say that my fantasy novels actually fill out their potential in terms of the benefits outlined above, but I fear I have a long ways to go before I ever produce anything that could be considered a "classic" in any of these constructive senses. My project, rather, is mainly to tell an entertaining story, woven throughout with themes of faith and virtue. It is, in broad view, an experiment in imagining what the story of redemption might have looked like if it were enacted in an entirely different world. That, I think, certainly has intrinsic merit, since the story of redemption will always produce something of value. On a smaller scale, my stories are also an attempt to show "virtue in action." Most of us will never have to face the trials and adventures that I put my characters through, but such dangerous circumstances have a way of clarifying the confusing mix of choices in life, and so adventure provides a good stage for the unveiling of virtue.
- In a sense, though, fantasy can be a form of escapism for me, and I have to guard against its influence. I am possessed by an exploratory nature, a wanderlust that thirsts for adventure and, too often, becomes discontent with the normal flow of everyday life. Perhaps some of it comes from growing up on the mission field--there is a thirst to constantly be seeing and experiencing some new corner of creation. This tendency overflows to a number of my interests. Take history, for example. While I'm a fine student, and could probably make a fair professor of history, I doubt I could ever be a true historian in the sense of a scholar who delves into the stories, thought, and culture of a particular age until he knows it through-and-through. I couldn't do that. I love history, but I love it for the stories. And when I've already learned the major characters and stories in one particular corner of history, I tend to move on to find new stories somewhere else. So writing fantasy can be escapism for me--when my own life fails to provide any adventure, and when I'm not in a position to create adventures around me, then I can retreat into the worlds of my own creation and devise whatever sort of adventures I please. But this is only problematic, I think, insofar as it detracts from my engagement in the here-and-now, and I have enough of a sense of self-awareness to keep a firm hand of discipline on that impulse. The real question will be whether the settled life of ministry will be able to long survive my adventuresome wanderlust (I really feel no attraction whatsoever to a life of quiet American domesticity). I think ministry will survive that impulse--at least I'm hopeful it will--for a number of reasons. First, I'll be dealing with the Word of God each week, and I have found, to my great delight, that its horizons for leading me into the adventure of God are unbounded. Second, I'll be interacting with a community of people, and communities have a tendency to produce their own adventure. From what I know of pastoral ministry, there's usually enough going on to keep one's interest up. Third, as long as I'm in a place with access to a slice of wilderness open to my personal exploration, I'll be fine. Nothing is quite so restorative for me as trailblazing alone through a patch of woods, and if I have access to such a place, then I think my restless nature will be satisfied. And fourth, I have enough of an appreciation for a slow-and-steady pace of life, enough of a delight in tradition, that I think the ministry might be a good fit for me. I have an adventuresome heart, true, but it's ruled fairly well by reason, good sense, and an appreciation for the simple joys of life. Give me a choice between risking my life in extreme sports merely for the sake of adventure, or a life behind a desk in a quiet study, and I'll choose the latter every time.
- Benedict Groeschel has written that in his observation, many people encounter God along the lines of the ancient philosophical categories: the One, the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. Those who seek and experience God as the One tend to be those in search of personal integration, aware of conflicting forces within them (the example given was Catherine of Genoa). Those who seek God as the Good are generally gentle, joyful people who easily become emotionally broken in encounters with the brokenness of the world (Francis of Assisi). Those who seek him as the Beautiful are, obviously, lovers of beauty (the young Augustine), and those who seek him as truth are often engaged by the intellectual and philosophical side of the faith (Thomas Aquinas). I don't know if this breakdown is exhaustively true of human experience, but it's certainly interesting. For my part, I tend to pursue God around the dual poles of Beauty and Truth. My thirst for beauty is such that I have what might almost be called a mystical experience whenever I'm out in a particularly lovely corner of nature--there is nowhere else where I feel so near to God. I drink in beauty in wordless wonder, and it pours out of me in poetry and song. Interestingly, the sins which most easily beset me are associated with this undying pursuit of beauty--they take the proper object of that thirst, God, and redirect its passions to seek beauty elsewhere. Truth is also important for me, and provides a secondary means by which I seek and experience God. Being something of an intellectual, I take great joy in learning new things about the world, about human experience, and about God himself. Beyond my roving wanderings in the woods, a book is the next best thing for me when it comes to igniting my heart for the pursuit of God. Paradigms like Groeschel's can be valuable, both for understanding the character of our own relationship with God and for reminding us that the person in the next pew over might well experience God in a very different manner than we do, and that that's quite alright.
- I've been thinking quite a bit about hell lately, thanks to a research paper for my "Ecclesiology and Eschatology" class. In particular, I've been pondering the fate of the damned. Traditionally, there is one main view--the damned are condemned by God for their sins at the Final Judgment, then cast away into an eternity of conscious torment. One may say quite easily that God's justice is linked to his love, and that because of his love for the redeemed, he will do justice to the oppressors. However, this view neglects to take into account the fact that the Bible tells us of God's love for all people (including, one would suppose, the damned). If the traditional view of hell is a reality, then it would seem that God would have to stop loving the damned at some point. This becomes difficult, because we know that the very character of God is Love, and that God's character does not--indeed, can not--change. It would also seem, at least from our limited perspective, that a punishment of unending, conscious torture for as little as one sin would be a punishment that does not fit the crime. (Defenders of the traditional view would say here that because God is an eternal God, a crime against him requires eternal punishment. This appeal to logic seems to me to be a stretch, though. If the Bible said nothing about hell as eternal conscious torment, would these theologians still devise such a system and defend it as a logical necessity?) Further, we regard physical torture, even of the most evil people, as a horrendous deed here on earth (now clearly prohibited by all standards of international law). The earthly leaders who practice ongoing torture as a means of punishment are regarded not as particularly awesome, but rather as villains and despots. If we magnify this to an eternal scale (with God as the authority), would the values actually reverse to the point that physical torture becomes a good rather than an evil?
These are not easy questions to answer, but they are important to consider. Although the traditional view of hell has held sway for most of church history, there are some leading lights who have questioned whether this doctrine might actually impugn the character of God (Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory of Nazianzus, and, in our own day, John Stott). It is also good to consider that the traditional view of hell leans almost completely on a legal metaphor of the atonement (sin as crime), rather than a Christus Victor or healing metaphor (sin as captivity or disease). There have been a number of attempts to challenge or moderate the traditional doctrine down through the years. One such attempt was universalism (the belief that all will eventually be saved, perhaps by undergoing hell as a purgational stage), but that has largely been condemned as unbiblical by church tradition (there are some biblical hints toward universalism, but not enough to build it into a proper dogma of the church). Another is annihilationism, which holds that sinners will be snuffed out of existence by God rather than condemned to eternal torture. Others hold to the possibility of different gradations of punishment in hell (so that Gandhi would find himself in a pleasanter hell than Hitler). Some will also talk about hell as being something that we choose rather than something which God sends us to. This sounds nice, but runs contrary to the biblical evidence which shows God as the one who judges and condemns.
All things considered, it's no easy question. Following an evangelical hermeneutic of Scripture, I find that I simply cannot get around the "traditionalist" passages in Scripture which seem to support an eternal conscious hell. Is that the end of the debate? Perhaps, but perhaps not. I find the emotional and philosophical arguments for the other positions very compelling, and they have some intriguing biblical arguments as well. I find myself hoping for universalism in the face of my adherence to the biblical picture of eternal conscious torment, but overall I'm content to say that God is wiser than I, and that whatever he does in the end will certainly be right and good.
For me, it comes down to two main applications as a minister of the Gospel. First, hell is such a difficult question that it ought to be handled carefully and with great empathy. Despite all the teaching about hell in Scripture, there is a great deal that we simply don’t understand about it. The traditionalist position appears to have the strongest biblical argument, but it often comes across as repulsive and extreme. It may be the case that our perspective here on earth is limited, and that in the age to come we will be able to see and understand hell in a way that dissolves all our objections. Until then, I think the advice of John Stott holds true: “We may, and I think we should, preserve a certain reverent and humble agnosticism about the precise nature of hell, as about the precise nature of heaven. Both are beyond our understanding."
Second, while we can retain some agnosticism about the exact nature hell, we must be clear about the reality of hell. Jesus did not teach so extensively on the subject for nothing. Sinners must be told that there is a judgment coming and that the eschatological punishment will not be pleasant or tolerable in the least. The Bible is clear that hell is a horrible, terrifying end. While we ought not to abuse the doctrine by trying to scare sinners into repentance, we must hold fast to our responsibility to warn them. The Gospel is good news for those who believe, but there is also an element of warning—perhaps even “bad news”—that needs to be told. We must remember that the Gospel will always be an offense to sinful human sensibilities, but that does not mean that it ought not to be proclaimed.
(If you're interested, I have my full 20-page research paper on this subject if you'd like to look at my analysis in more detail--just drop me a note, and I'll send it to you.)
- Among many Americans, and especially among Christians, one of the first questions that comes up against my hobby of writing fiction is "Why waste time making up stories when you could be writing about true, practical, this-world issues?" Unfortunately, this attitude seems to be widespread among Christians, and it comes at me even more sharply when it is revealed that not only am I writing fiction, but I'm writing fantasy. There is a fear encouched here that fantasy is nothing more than time-consuming escapism. Sadly, much of the fantasy on the secular market probably is just that.
But if we neglect fiction--even fantasy fiction--I think we lose a great deal of potential insight. This is especially true for pastors and other ministers of the Gospel. Our position necessitates a certain level of understanding of the human condition and its widely varied experiences. The truth of the matter is that I only get to live one life here on Earth, and so far it has been a pretty steady road for me. I have no intimate, experiential awareness of a broad swath of the tragedy and trials that afflict the great majority of humanity. Fiction helps fill that gap. By reading fiction, I can walk through experiences that are foreign to me, experiences which teach me more about what it means to be human. It challenges me with a perspective on life that is not my own. It provides a wealth of illustrations, drawn from fictional experience, to illuminate the underlying tensions and challenges of my own life. In the engagement of fiction, we are presented with the question that so powerfully arises from the dark circumstances of Defoe's Moll Flanders: "What would you do?"
Further, fiction allows us to represent the questions of faith and philosophy in concrete, rather than abstract, form. Most of us learn truth better from stories than we do from syllogisms, and stories often have a peculiar ability to transcend the level of explanation available in any syllogism. To use an example cited by C. S. Lewis, the tragedy of Oedipus Rex challenges us to consider the relationship between free will and determinism in a way that no philosophical debate ever could.
Fantasy, as a genre of fiction, has great potential for these benefits, since its horizons for creativity are practically unlimited. It is possible to use fantasy to devise scenarios which would presumably never happen in this world, but which speak with deep profundity to the problems we encounter here. As a writer, fantasy also gives me the rich joy of reflecting God's act of creation--to build an entire world, complete with people, cultures, languages, and so on. I would like to say that my fantasy novels actually fill out their potential in terms of the benefits outlined above, but I fear I have a long ways to go before I ever produce anything that could be considered a "classic" in any of these constructive senses. My project, rather, is mainly to tell an entertaining story, woven throughout with themes of faith and virtue. It is, in broad view, an experiment in imagining what the story of redemption might have looked like if it were enacted in an entirely different world. That, I think, certainly has intrinsic merit, since the story of redemption will always produce something of value. On a smaller scale, my stories are also an attempt to show "virtue in action." Most of us will never have to face the trials and adventures that I put my characters through, but such dangerous circumstances have a way of clarifying the confusing mix of choices in life, and so adventure provides a good stage for the unveiling of virtue.
- In a sense, though, fantasy can be a form of escapism for me, and I have to guard against its influence. I am possessed by an exploratory nature, a wanderlust that thirsts for adventure and, too often, becomes discontent with the normal flow of everyday life. Perhaps some of it comes from growing up on the mission field--there is a thirst to constantly be seeing and experiencing some new corner of creation. This tendency overflows to a number of my interests. Take history, for example. While I'm a fine student, and could probably make a fair professor of history, I doubt I could ever be a true historian in the sense of a scholar who delves into the stories, thought, and culture of a particular age until he knows it through-and-through. I couldn't do that. I love history, but I love it for the stories. And when I've already learned the major characters and stories in one particular corner of history, I tend to move on to find new stories somewhere else. So writing fantasy can be escapism for me--when my own life fails to provide any adventure, and when I'm not in a position to create adventures around me, then I can retreat into the worlds of my own creation and devise whatever sort of adventures I please. But this is only problematic, I think, insofar as it detracts from my engagement in the here-and-now, and I have enough of a sense of self-awareness to keep a firm hand of discipline on that impulse. The real question will be whether the settled life of ministry will be able to long survive my adventuresome wanderlust (I really feel no attraction whatsoever to a life of quiet American domesticity). I think ministry will survive that impulse--at least I'm hopeful it will--for a number of reasons. First, I'll be dealing with the Word of God each week, and I have found, to my great delight, that its horizons for leading me into the adventure of God are unbounded. Second, I'll be interacting with a community of people, and communities have a tendency to produce their own adventure. From what I know of pastoral ministry, there's usually enough going on to keep one's interest up. Third, as long as I'm in a place with access to a slice of wilderness open to my personal exploration, I'll be fine. Nothing is quite so restorative for me as trailblazing alone through a patch of woods, and if I have access to such a place, then I think my restless nature will be satisfied. And fourth, I have enough of an appreciation for a slow-and-steady pace of life, enough of a delight in tradition, that I think the ministry might be a good fit for me. I have an adventuresome heart, true, but it's ruled fairly well by reason, good sense, and an appreciation for the simple joys of life. Give me a choice between risking my life in extreme sports merely for the sake of adventure, or a life behind a desk in a quiet study, and I'll choose the latter every time.
- Benedict Groeschel has written that in his observation, many people encounter God along the lines of the ancient philosophical categories: the One, the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. Those who seek and experience God as the One tend to be those in search of personal integration, aware of conflicting forces within them (the example given was Catherine of Genoa). Those who seek God as the Good are generally gentle, joyful people who easily become emotionally broken in encounters with the brokenness of the world (Francis of Assisi). Those who seek him as the Beautiful are, obviously, lovers of beauty (the young Augustine), and those who seek him as truth are often engaged by the intellectual and philosophical side of the faith (Thomas Aquinas). I don't know if this breakdown is exhaustively true of human experience, but it's certainly interesting. For my part, I tend to pursue God around the dual poles of Beauty and Truth. My thirst for beauty is such that I have what might almost be called a mystical experience whenever I'm out in a particularly lovely corner of nature--there is nowhere else where I feel so near to God. I drink in beauty in wordless wonder, and it pours out of me in poetry and song. Interestingly, the sins which most easily beset me are associated with this undying pursuit of beauty--they take the proper object of that thirst, God, and redirect its passions to seek beauty elsewhere. Truth is also important for me, and provides a secondary means by which I seek and experience God. Being something of an intellectual, I take great joy in learning new things about the world, about human experience, and about God himself. Beyond my roving wanderings in the woods, a book is the next best thing for me when it comes to igniting my heart for the pursuit of God. Paradigms like Groeschel's can be valuable, both for understanding the character of our own relationship with God and for reminding us that the person in the next pew over might well experience God in a very different manner than we do, and that that's quite alright.
- I've been thinking quite a bit about hell lately, thanks to a research paper for my "Ecclesiology and Eschatology" class. In particular, I've been pondering the fate of the damned. Traditionally, there is one main view--the damned are condemned by God for their sins at the Final Judgment, then cast away into an eternity of conscious torment. One may say quite easily that God's justice is linked to his love, and that because of his love for the redeemed, he will do justice to the oppressors. However, this view neglects to take into account the fact that the Bible tells us of God's love for all people (including, one would suppose, the damned). If the traditional view of hell is a reality, then it would seem that God would have to stop loving the damned at some point. This becomes difficult, because we know that the very character of God is Love, and that God's character does not--indeed, can not--change. It would also seem, at least from our limited perspective, that a punishment of unending, conscious torture for as little as one sin would be a punishment that does not fit the crime. (Defenders of the traditional view would say here that because God is an eternal God, a crime against him requires eternal punishment. This appeal to logic seems to me to be a stretch, though. If the Bible said nothing about hell as eternal conscious torment, would these theologians still devise such a system and defend it as a logical necessity?) Further, we regard physical torture, even of the most evil people, as a horrendous deed here on earth (now clearly prohibited by all standards of international law). The earthly leaders who practice ongoing torture as a means of punishment are regarded not as particularly awesome, but rather as villains and despots. If we magnify this to an eternal scale (with God as the authority), would the values actually reverse to the point that physical torture becomes a good rather than an evil?
These are not easy questions to answer, but they are important to consider. Although the traditional view of hell has held sway for most of church history, there are some leading lights who have questioned whether this doctrine might actually impugn the character of God (Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory of Nazianzus, and, in our own day, John Stott). It is also good to consider that the traditional view of hell leans almost completely on a legal metaphor of the atonement (sin as crime), rather than a Christus Victor or healing metaphor (sin as captivity or disease). There have been a number of attempts to challenge or moderate the traditional doctrine down through the years. One such attempt was universalism (the belief that all will eventually be saved, perhaps by undergoing hell as a purgational stage), but that has largely been condemned as unbiblical by church tradition (there are some biblical hints toward universalism, but not enough to build it into a proper dogma of the church). Another is annihilationism, which holds that sinners will be snuffed out of existence by God rather than condemned to eternal torture. Others hold to the possibility of different gradations of punishment in hell (so that Gandhi would find himself in a pleasanter hell than Hitler). Some will also talk about hell as being something that we choose rather than something which God sends us to. This sounds nice, but runs contrary to the biblical evidence which shows God as the one who judges and condemns.
All things considered, it's no easy question. Following an evangelical hermeneutic of Scripture, I find that I simply cannot get around the "traditionalist" passages in Scripture which seem to support an eternal conscious hell. Is that the end of the debate? Perhaps, but perhaps not. I find the emotional and philosophical arguments for the other positions very compelling, and they have some intriguing biblical arguments as well. I find myself hoping for universalism in the face of my adherence to the biblical picture of eternal conscious torment, but overall I'm content to say that God is wiser than I, and that whatever he does in the end will certainly be right and good.
For me, it comes down to two main applications as a minister of the Gospel. First, hell is such a difficult question that it ought to be handled carefully and with great empathy. Despite all the teaching about hell in Scripture, there is a great deal that we simply don’t understand about it. The traditionalist position appears to have the strongest biblical argument, but it often comes across as repulsive and extreme. It may be the case that our perspective here on earth is limited, and that in the age to come we will be able to see and understand hell in a way that dissolves all our objections. Until then, I think the advice of John Stott holds true: “We may, and I think we should, preserve a certain reverent and humble agnosticism about the precise nature of hell, as about the precise nature of heaven. Both are beyond our understanding."
Second, while we can retain some agnosticism about the exact nature hell, we must be clear about the reality of hell. Jesus did not teach so extensively on the subject for nothing. Sinners must be told that there is a judgment coming and that the eschatological punishment will not be pleasant or tolerable in the least. The Bible is clear that hell is a horrible, terrifying end. While we ought not to abuse the doctrine by trying to scare sinners into repentance, we must hold fast to our responsibility to warn them. The Gospel is good news for those who believe, but there is also an element of warning—perhaps even “bad news”—that needs to be told. We must remember that the Gospel will always be an offense to sinful human sensibilities, but that does not mean that it ought not to be proclaimed.
(If you're interested, I have my full 20-page research paper on this subject if you'd like to look at my analysis in more detail--just drop me a note, and I'll send it to you.)
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Fractals and the Beauty of Denominationalism
I recently watched a PBS program on fractal geometry, focusing specifically on a particularly famous fractal known as the Mandelbrot Set. My forays into the world of mathematics ended with high school, so I can’t offer any detailed analyses of fractals. As I understand them, though, fractals are geometrical patterns which result from sets of numbers, generated by a simple equation and then placed on a graph. Because these numbers come from the same equation, they produce “self-similar,” replicating patterns—patterns that replicate to infinite detail. This produces mathematical oddities such as a bounded geometric shape, which on the large scale clearly looks finite, but whose border is infinite in length. The most famous is the Mandelbrot Set (pictured here), produced by the original fractal theorist, Benoit Mandelbrot.
As one zooms in on the border of the shape, one finds that the same overall pattern repeats itself, over and over in infinitesimally smaller and smaller figures. These replicating patterns also produce some surprising results from their arrangement: the borders of the Mandelbrot Set, all produced by a simple equation, generate the dazzling and beautiful designs shown below (from Wikipedia’s fine gallery on the subject).
The wonder of fractals is that they are so simple and so easily defined, yet produce such incredible beauty and variety. And the more that scientists examine fractals, the more they find that fractal-structures provide much of the essential makeup of the natural world—leaves, trees, mountains, clouds, rivers, and so on. Fractal geometry adds to the growing body of scientific knowledge which points to the beauty and order of creation.
All of this is interesting in its own right, but I began to wonder. If fractals can give us a better understanding of certain areas of reality, such as the natural world, can they give us an understanding of other areas? In particular, can they be applied to the areas of my interest: history and theology? If the natural world at first seems chaotic, history seems even more so. However, we Christians hold that the same God who designed the natural world is also active in history, and especially active—even guiding—in the history of redemption. Could we not expect, then, to see certain patterns—perhaps even beautiful patterns—in that history?
The first immediate application that occurred to me was that of denominationalism. Most of those who think and write about the ever-fracturing denominations of Christianity treat it as an unfortunate state of affairs, a tragic violation of Jesus’ great prayer that we would all be one. That’s part of the picture, to be sure. Fractions in the unity of the church arise too often from un-Christian motives—the grudges, anger, and resentments that naturally boil up from the general irascibility of humans trying to live in community. And some arise from human mistakes on issues of theological debate. There’s a general feeling among Christians that one’s own denomination has the truth and all others are in error, at least to some degree. Roman Catholics and Eastern Orthodox each regard their own branch as the truest manifestation of the apostolic church, looking askance at Protestantism for its willful separation. Protestants, for their own part, though sometimes enjoying the variety of denominationalism (as in the American practice of church-hopping), often feel a certain amount of shame for their endlessly-splintering ways. All these views focus on the negative side of denominationalism, assuming it to be a result of human fallenness and error.
But that’s only one side of the story. The church is not only a human institution; it’s also a divine institution. We believe that the church itself, the community of Christians, is mystically enlivened and guided by the Holy Spirit. Might it not be the case that some of this ever-expanding denominationalism is the work of the Spirit? Those who would point back to earlier forms of Christianity as exemplifying an ideal unity are, to some extent, looking through rose-tinted glasses. The divergence of traditions has always been a part of Christianity, often driven by varying cultural environments. We can see the first example of divergence within the New Testament itself, in the different emphases of Jewish-culture Christian theology (illustrated most clearly in James) and Greek-culture theology. There was no formal separation, but these two streams of thought only intermingled to a degree. The later Christianity of Syria and Edessa continued to preserve much of the Jewish-culture Christianity, while other centers of Christianity moved largely along Greek lines. In the first few centuries, there was also a major divergence between the theologies of the ecclesiastical seats of authority, most notably between Antioch and Alexandria. After Constantine and the great ecumenical councils, permanent denominational divergence began in earnest. The fallout from the Council of Chalcedon was that the churches of Alexandria and Antioch (two of the original four major ecclesiastical seats) walked away from the formal unity of the wider church, and they’ve never completely come back.
During the Dark Ages, various “national” churches—such as the Irish—generated unique and inspiring manifestations of Christianity, significantly different in some ways from the mainstream traditions of the time. In the later Middle Ages, divergent traditions continued to arise all over Europe, although most of these, like the Waldensians, found themselves in the unfortunate situation of being under the authority of a Roman Church which had little tolerance for local theological variety. After the Protestant Reformation, this continuing divergence carried on and intensified, resulting in the multiplicity of denominations and traditions now to be seen all around the world.
The interesting thing is that most of these denominations arose from very specific geographic and historical circumstances, and so they each bear a unique cultural and theological imprint. Even among the denominations of “the Great Tradition” (Roman Catholicism and the various branches of Eastern Orthodoxy) there are significant differences in culture and theology. Now we have a spectrum of Christian traditions and communities, each with its own focus, and each with the potential to speak truth to its sister-traditions. We have the Eastern Orthodox church to direct our attention to our potential to be drawn into Christlikeness, the Lutheran church to remind us of the supremacy of grace, the Reformed churches to speak of the sovereignty of God, the Anabaptists to point us toward the pursuit of peace, the evangelical churches to remind us of the outreaching love of God to every man and woman, and the Pentecostals to direct our attention to the present power of the Holy Spirit (to name just a few of Christianity’s many branches).
Further, we can observe that different cultural circumstances give birth to a wide variety of practical expressions of Christianity. Early Jewish Christianity preserved a strong focus on the praxis of justice and righteousness; the ancient Persian church was profoundly missional in an age when the churches of the Mediterranean were not at all interested in missionary work; the medieval Irish churches were likewise missional and powerfully driven by an ideal of the imitation of Christ; the Moravian church of Zinzendorf, from its experience of persecution and wandering, had an emphasis both on the suffering of Christ and the global expansion of the faith; American churches have a tendency to emphasize the individual, practical application of the Gospel in its relational and internal-emotional dimensions; and I have seen with my own eyes the joyful community of contemporary African churches.
The point is that the divergence of cultural and theological traditions does not necessarily detract from Christianity as a whole. Rather, I think it tends to add to it. It allows each local culture to experience Christianity through the truth of Scripture and the ministry of the Holy Spirit, and then to express its faith in its own distinctive way. And from each distinctive expression of orthodox Christian faith, the wider Body of Christianity benefits. While our own cultural understanding of the faith is deeply impactful in our lives, the presence of other cultural expressions of the same faith opens our eyes to aspects of the Gospel that we might never have considered otherwise.
Rather than focusing purely on the negative aspects of denominationalism, I think we can benefit by thinking of Christian unity and denominationalism as a fractal, driven at least in part by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. The church, like a fractal, is in a continual process of self-similar regeneration across cultures, infinitely generating the same pattern in endless repetition. At the heart of each of these repetitions is the exact same shape—the shape of the true Gospel, if you will, the faith in Jesus Christ that we all share—but as you zoom in and out of the picture, each of these repeated patterns produces beautiful and distinctive arrangements that we never could have predicted from the simplicity of the original shape itself. There is some pleasant comfort in perceiving the unity of the church as a smooth geometrical shape like a circle, but a fractal has a beauty that surpasses even the simplicity of the circle. It is a unity, but also a diversity—a wild and beautiful shape that preserves the truth of its original pattern while spinning a million tiny worlds of grace. And that, I think, is closer to the reality of the church—at once the same and different, and beautiful both in its unity and its diversity.
The wonder of fractals is that they are so simple and so easily defined, yet produce such incredible beauty and variety. And the more that scientists examine fractals, the more they find that fractal-structures provide much of the essential makeup of the natural world—leaves, trees, mountains, clouds, rivers, and so on. Fractal geometry adds to the growing body of scientific knowledge which points to the beauty and order of creation.
All of this is interesting in its own right, but I began to wonder. If fractals can give us a better understanding of certain areas of reality, such as the natural world, can they give us an understanding of other areas? In particular, can they be applied to the areas of my interest: history and theology? If the natural world at first seems chaotic, history seems even more so. However, we Christians hold that the same God who designed the natural world is also active in history, and especially active—even guiding—in the history of redemption. Could we not expect, then, to see certain patterns—perhaps even beautiful patterns—in that history?
The first immediate application that occurred to me was that of denominationalism. Most of those who think and write about the ever-fracturing denominations of Christianity treat it as an unfortunate state of affairs, a tragic violation of Jesus’ great prayer that we would all be one. That’s part of the picture, to be sure. Fractions in the unity of the church arise too often from un-Christian motives—the grudges, anger, and resentments that naturally boil up from the general irascibility of humans trying to live in community. And some arise from human mistakes on issues of theological debate. There’s a general feeling among Christians that one’s own denomination has the truth and all others are in error, at least to some degree. Roman Catholics and Eastern Orthodox each regard their own branch as the truest manifestation of the apostolic church, looking askance at Protestantism for its willful separation. Protestants, for their own part, though sometimes enjoying the variety of denominationalism (as in the American practice of church-hopping), often feel a certain amount of shame for their endlessly-splintering ways. All these views focus on the negative side of denominationalism, assuming it to be a result of human fallenness and error.
But that’s only one side of the story. The church is not only a human institution; it’s also a divine institution. We believe that the church itself, the community of Christians, is mystically enlivened and guided by the Holy Spirit. Might it not be the case that some of this ever-expanding denominationalism is the work of the Spirit? Those who would point back to earlier forms of Christianity as exemplifying an ideal unity are, to some extent, looking through rose-tinted glasses. The divergence of traditions has always been a part of Christianity, often driven by varying cultural environments. We can see the first example of divergence within the New Testament itself, in the different emphases of Jewish-culture Christian theology (illustrated most clearly in James) and Greek-culture theology. There was no formal separation, but these two streams of thought only intermingled to a degree. The later Christianity of Syria and Edessa continued to preserve much of the Jewish-culture Christianity, while other centers of Christianity moved largely along Greek lines. In the first few centuries, there was also a major divergence between the theologies of the ecclesiastical seats of authority, most notably between Antioch and Alexandria. After Constantine and the great ecumenical councils, permanent denominational divergence began in earnest. The fallout from the Council of Chalcedon was that the churches of Alexandria and Antioch (two of the original four major ecclesiastical seats) walked away from the formal unity of the wider church, and they’ve never completely come back.
During the Dark Ages, various “national” churches—such as the Irish—generated unique and inspiring manifestations of Christianity, significantly different in some ways from the mainstream traditions of the time. In the later Middle Ages, divergent traditions continued to arise all over Europe, although most of these, like the Waldensians, found themselves in the unfortunate situation of being under the authority of a Roman Church which had little tolerance for local theological variety. After the Protestant Reformation, this continuing divergence carried on and intensified, resulting in the multiplicity of denominations and traditions now to be seen all around the world.
The interesting thing is that most of these denominations arose from very specific geographic and historical circumstances, and so they each bear a unique cultural and theological imprint. Even among the denominations of “the Great Tradition” (Roman Catholicism and the various branches of Eastern Orthodoxy) there are significant differences in culture and theology. Now we have a spectrum of Christian traditions and communities, each with its own focus, and each with the potential to speak truth to its sister-traditions. We have the Eastern Orthodox church to direct our attention to our potential to be drawn into Christlikeness, the Lutheran church to remind us of the supremacy of grace, the Reformed churches to speak of the sovereignty of God, the Anabaptists to point us toward the pursuit of peace, the evangelical churches to remind us of the outreaching love of God to every man and woman, and the Pentecostals to direct our attention to the present power of the Holy Spirit (to name just a few of Christianity’s many branches).
Further, we can observe that different cultural circumstances give birth to a wide variety of practical expressions of Christianity. Early Jewish Christianity preserved a strong focus on the praxis of justice and righteousness; the ancient Persian church was profoundly missional in an age when the churches of the Mediterranean were not at all interested in missionary work; the medieval Irish churches were likewise missional and powerfully driven by an ideal of the imitation of Christ; the Moravian church of Zinzendorf, from its experience of persecution and wandering, had an emphasis both on the suffering of Christ and the global expansion of the faith; American churches have a tendency to emphasize the individual, practical application of the Gospel in its relational and internal-emotional dimensions; and I have seen with my own eyes the joyful community of contemporary African churches.
The point is that the divergence of cultural and theological traditions does not necessarily detract from Christianity as a whole. Rather, I think it tends to add to it. It allows each local culture to experience Christianity through the truth of Scripture and the ministry of the Holy Spirit, and then to express its faith in its own distinctive way. And from each distinctive expression of orthodox Christian faith, the wider Body of Christianity benefits. While our own cultural understanding of the faith is deeply impactful in our lives, the presence of other cultural expressions of the same faith opens our eyes to aspects of the Gospel that we might never have considered otherwise.
Rather than focusing purely on the negative aspects of denominationalism, I think we can benefit by thinking of Christian unity and denominationalism as a fractal, driven at least in part by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. The church, like a fractal, is in a continual process of self-similar regeneration across cultures, infinitely generating the same pattern in endless repetition. At the heart of each of these repetitions is the exact same shape—the shape of the true Gospel, if you will, the faith in Jesus Christ that we all share—but as you zoom in and out of the picture, each of these repeated patterns produces beautiful and distinctive arrangements that we never could have predicted from the simplicity of the original shape itself. There is some pleasant comfort in perceiving the unity of the church as a smooth geometrical shape like a circle, but a fractal has a beauty that surpasses even the simplicity of the circle. It is a unity, but also a diversity—a wild and beautiful shape that preserves the truth of its original pattern while spinning a million tiny worlds of grace. And that, I think, is closer to the reality of the church—at once the same and different, and beautiful both in its unity and its diversity.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Questing to a Better Shore
A few months ago I happily chanced across a copy of Pseudo-Macarius' Fifty Spiritual Homilies on a bargain bookshelf. I had never heard of the author, but, having a strong affection for the spiritual writings of the early church, I bought it. In the past week I've sat down and begun reading it, to find it one of the most beautiful and praise-inspiring collections of early Christian spirituality I've ever encountered. It turns out that Pseudo-Macarius, of whom we know almost nothing other than that he was probably a monk in 4th-century Syria (we don't even know his real name), was one of the early fountainheads of Eastern Orthodox spirituality, and he also had a major impact on the Protestant Pietists (forerunners of us evangelicals).
My spirit has been dry of poetry for several months now, but Pseudo-Macarius brought it back. In the words of John Wesley (from his journal): "I read Macarius and sang." This is a poem I wrote today, inspired by his writings. It speaks of the fight of the human will against the power of sin, which has infested our nature, and of God's help in bringing us back to our original nature, and then beyond it through the gift of the Spirit.
(Those of you interested in the mechanics of poetry will probably note that although this poem aspires to a set meter, and sometimes even a rhyme, it isn't all the way there. That's somewhat intentional--the form of the poem itself is meant to portray the constant aspiration toward the perfection of virtue, but, because of the limitations of sin and human nature, not its full accomplishment.)
Christ, alive this day in me,
In us--
Awaken Thou my soul to love.
I, caught against the flow of sin
That casts me up on twisted nature's shore--
I take my barque and paddle hard
Against the draw of pull and tide;
And as I strike the angry wave
With portioned blow and calm,
The wind of Thy sweet breath makes rise
To aid me to a better shore.
There peace and valor both alight
And greet the wild wind with praise--
There I, true-hearted and alive,
Find my soul in Eden's ways.
This is my nature as it was--
Unspoiled, bright with joy.
Again, again, You call me back,
Back to what we were before.
Pure and undefiled we,
And now with Spirit's raptured grace,
Our hearts are mirrors of Thy love,
Our hearts are mirrors of Thy face.
Thou to us are God
In person and in truth;
And we to the world are as You:
God in virtue and in love.
This voyage is my endless quest,
This fight against dark nature's tide.
Questing I come forth to fight,
And questing I lay down to die.
Make Thou my journey full and fierce,
And recklessly sublime,
Till I find myself at nature's end
When love shall triumph over time.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Can Politics Save the World?
The answer, of course, is "No." But in a presidential election where hype is at an all-time high, driven by mantras of "hope" and "change we can believe in," it's worth re-stating the simple truth: politics can achieve a great deal of good, but politics has never been the answer to the world's problems, and it never will be.
I've outlined my position on voting in presidential elections in the posts below, and I have great hopes for the good that politics can achieve in the future of our country. But if our hope is only in politics, our hope is severely misplaced. Biblically speaking, the Christian hope for the world only marginally intersects with the regular course of political affairs. There is some overlap, but certainly not a total overlap. For instance, the church is called to seek justice, as is the state. But the church seeks justice not for itself, but for others, and it seeks it by way of love, while the state seeks justice by means of the sword, and first and foremost for its own citizens. And there are significant areas where the agendas of church and state do not point in the same direction. For example, capitalist nation-states see it as their duty to support an economy that flourishes in prosperity for its citizens, while the church flourishes by giving its prosperity away for the good of others. The state exists, in large part, for the safety and security of its people, while the church mobilizes its people into the unsafe, insecure areas of life where the mission of God is being carried out.
In short, then, the church and state have different aims, and even in those aims they do share, their methods are significantly different. But it's not enough to note that the two institutions are merely different. We need to press further and ask, "Which institution has more potential to change the world for good?" Certainly politics can (but historically, its track record hasn't been great on that mark), but the church is where the power for transforming society truly rests. Why? Simply because the transformation of society begins with people's hearts, and that is beyond the reach of politics.
The God-given mandate of politics--the power of the sword to do good--is usually defined in terms of ensuring peace and justice. And those ends, of course, are indispensable. There are some things that the state can do which the church can't, and as good citizens of a democratic state, we ought to uphold those purposes. However, my first exhortation for my fellow Christians is simply this: We ought not to cede too much of our mission to the state. We can't allow political action on issues that are also responsibilities of the church to give us an excuse for our complacency. To put it simply: the mere fact that the government in our society takes upon itself the task of looking after the poor and the elderly is not a good reason for the church to ignore its own mandate to care for the weakest members of society.
Politics can't save the world, but Jesus can and will. And the body of Christ--his living presence in this world--is the church. The church has more power--immeasurably more--to effect lasting change for good in the world than politics ever will.
Take the abortion issue. Though the political means of fighting abortion are valuable--and hopefully will prove effective--lasting change on this issue, in a democratic society like ours, will only come through a basic change in people's hearts. A self-centered, sex-crazed culture will never consent to do away with abortion. Even if anti-abortion legislation is effectively passed, it will always be in danger of being reversed as long as the majority of the culture is ambivalent about the morality of this issue. Only a culture being inwardly renewed through a revival of Christian faith and morality will be able to stand up and affirm lasting change. Politics can change laws, but not hearts; and it is hearts that need changing before some of the issues that face us, like abortion, can ever be fully addressed. (Note, however, that this is not an argument against anti-abortion legislation, since I argued strongly in my earlier posts for using politics to fight abortion. This is merely an observation that the root of the problem goes deeper than bad laws--it goes back to the hearts of the citizens who make the laws).
Perhaps it's good to consider not so much what Obama or McCain can do for the causes of peace, education, poverty, and social justice, but rather to consider what we, the church, can do. It is our responsibility to look after the poor, the widows, and the orphans. We cannot allow ourselves to slide into complacency on these issues with the excuse that it's the government's problem now. If we really want to effect lasting change toward a life-affirming culture, we need to model that life by caring for the poor, comforting the sick, and adopting parentless children. If we really want to move our nation toward peacemaking rather than violent international policing, then we need to model the sort of honest, loving, confrontational peacemaking that Jesus displayed. If we honestly want to see lasting change in this country, we ought to be spending a great deal more time on our knees.
Politics can't save the world. But God can, and God works through the church. Let's remember, when election day rolls around, that putting too much of our hope in politics can lead us into an idolatrous cult of misplaced hope. Politics can do great good, but our hope truly rests only in one place:
"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God." (Ps. 20:7)
I've outlined my position on voting in presidential elections in the posts below, and I have great hopes for the good that politics can achieve in the future of our country. But if our hope is only in politics, our hope is severely misplaced. Biblically speaking, the Christian hope for the world only marginally intersects with the regular course of political affairs. There is some overlap, but certainly not a total overlap. For instance, the church is called to seek justice, as is the state. But the church seeks justice not for itself, but for others, and it seeks it by way of love, while the state seeks justice by means of the sword, and first and foremost for its own citizens. And there are significant areas where the agendas of church and state do not point in the same direction. For example, capitalist nation-states see it as their duty to support an economy that flourishes in prosperity for its citizens, while the church flourishes by giving its prosperity away for the good of others. The state exists, in large part, for the safety and security of its people, while the church mobilizes its people into the unsafe, insecure areas of life where the mission of God is being carried out.
In short, then, the church and state have different aims, and even in those aims they do share, their methods are significantly different. But it's not enough to note that the two institutions are merely different. We need to press further and ask, "Which institution has more potential to change the world for good?" Certainly politics can (but historically, its track record hasn't been great on that mark), but the church is where the power for transforming society truly rests. Why? Simply because the transformation of society begins with people's hearts, and that is beyond the reach of politics.
The God-given mandate of politics--the power of the sword to do good--is usually defined in terms of ensuring peace and justice. And those ends, of course, are indispensable. There are some things that the state can do which the church can't, and as good citizens of a democratic state, we ought to uphold those purposes. However, my first exhortation for my fellow Christians is simply this: We ought not to cede too much of our mission to the state. We can't allow political action on issues that are also responsibilities of the church to give us an excuse for our complacency. To put it simply: the mere fact that the government in our society takes upon itself the task of looking after the poor and the elderly is not a good reason for the church to ignore its own mandate to care for the weakest members of society.
Politics can't save the world, but Jesus can and will. And the body of Christ--his living presence in this world--is the church. The church has more power--immeasurably more--to effect lasting change for good in the world than politics ever will.
Take the abortion issue. Though the political means of fighting abortion are valuable--and hopefully will prove effective--lasting change on this issue, in a democratic society like ours, will only come through a basic change in people's hearts. A self-centered, sex-crazed culture will never consent to do away with abortion. Even if anti-abortion legislation is effectively passed, it will always be in danger of being reversed as long as the majority of the culture is ambivalent about the morality of this issue. Only a culture being inwardly renewed through a revival of Christian faith and morality will be able to stand up and affirm lasting change. Politics can change laws, but not hearts; and it is hearts that need changing before some of the issues that face us, like abortion, can ever be fully addressed. (Note, however, that this is not an argument against anti-abortion legislation, since I argued strongly in my earlier posts for using politics to fight abortion. This is merely an observation that the root of the problem goes deeper than bad laws--it goes back to the hearts of the citizens who make the laws).
Perhaps it's good to consider not so much what Obama or McCain can do for the causes of peace, education, poverty, and social justice, but rather to consider what we, the church, can do. It is our responsibility to look after the poor, the widows, and the orphans. We cannot allow ourselves to slide into complacency on these issues with the excuse that it's the government's problem now. If we really want to effect lasting change toward a life-affirming culture, we need to model that life by caring for the poor, comforting the sick, and adopting parentless children. If we really want to move our nation toward peacemaking rather than violent international policing, then we need to model the sort of honest, loving, confrontational peacemaking that Jesus displayed. If we honestly want to see lasting change in this country, we ought to be spending a great deal more time on our knees.
Politics can't save the world. But God can, and God works through the church. Let's remember, when election day rolls around, that putting too much of our hope in politics can lead us into an idolatrous cult of misplaced hope. Politics can do great good, but our hope truly rests only in one place:
"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God." (Ps. 20:7)
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The Leopard
Dear readers, you have my apologies for it having been so long since my last post. Here's a poem I just wrote, inspired by Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. It's called "The Leopard":
The wood is dark; the path is lost;
And I, half-blinded in the haze—
I turn my heart in reckless round,
To follow after better ways.
When weakness drowns my better sense,
But black as night it is to me—
The lash, the grave, and my offense.
Bloodied am I, but never dead,
Nor shall I now give up the path
To this, my desire and my dread.
But still this step awaits me now—
Beyond the leopard’s deadly lair
And to the keeping of my vow.
Now Heaven’s pow’r my heart revives;
I step into the joy of God,
And I will flay this beast alive.
“And see! not far from where the mountain-side
First rose, a Leopard, nimble and light and fleet,
Clothed in a fine furred pelt all dapple-dyed,
Came gamboling out, and skipped before my feet,
Hindering me so, that from the forthright line
Time and again I turned to beat retreat.”
Dante’s Inferno, Canto I (translated by Dorothy Sayers)
The wood is dark; the path is lost;
And I, half-blinded in the haze—
I turn my heart in reckless round,
To follow after better ways.
But then it comes, the shadow bright,
The beast that haunts my every breath.
It lurks, it laughs, it waits for me,
To drag me to an endless death.
The beast that haunts my every breath.
It lurks, it laughs, it waits for me,
To drag me to an endless death.
When weakness drowns my better sense,
But black as night it is to me—
The lash, the grave, and my offense.
I know my foe, and he knows me,
For long and bitter is our fight.
Sometimes I rout him from the path,
Sometimes he chases me to flight.
For long and bitter is our fight.
Sometimes I rout him from the path,
Sometimes he chases me to flight.
Bloodied am I, but never dead,
Nor shall I now give up the path
To this, my desire and my dread.
Blessed Heaven, if thou can hear,
Oh, send a guide to guard my ways,
To lead me past this threshold black
And raise my steps to higher planes.
Oh, send a guide to guard my ways,
To lead me past this threshold black
And raise my steps to higher planes.
There is but one escape for me,
I know it well, but fear the path—
To journey down purgation’s vale
And taste of my appointed wrath.
I know it well, but fear the path—
To journey down purgation’s vale
And taste of my appointed wrath.
Then down, then up, the other side,
O blessed mountain of my hope!
Then grace will be my very strength,
The pow’r that pulls me up that slope.
O blessed mountain of my hope!
Then grace will be my very strength,
The pow’r that pulls me up that slope.
And then, O bright and swift ascent!
Beyond the hill, and far above,
To that which grace assigned for me,
A place within the Maker’s love.
Beyond the hill, and far above,
To that which grace assigned for me,
A place within the Maker’s love.
But still this step awaits me now—
Beyond the leopard’s deadly lair
And to the keeping of my vow.
Now Heaven’s pow’r my heart revives;
I step into the joy of God,
And I will flay this beast alive.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A Relationship with God
In popular evangelical circles, there's a saying that goes something like this: "Christianity isn't a religion; it's a relationship."
I understand the sentiment here. There's more to Christianity than rites and readings. It's a genuine, personal connection with a very real, very personal God. But if we leave it at merely the level of "Christianity is a relationship," then we run the risk of hindering our own spiritual growth and the growth of those around us. The truth is, Christianity is a relationship, but it's like no other relationship you've ever had. The interactions that constitute this personal relationship with God are so unlike any human relationship that the terminology of "relationship" can lead us to some false assumptions.
For instance, many people assume that they should always have an awareness of the presence of God with them. As with any dear friend, they yearn for closeness, for an emotional attachment that will bring them consolation in their empty moments. They want a safe refuge to run to, a place to feel accepted and secure.
But that's not always the way it is with God. Because pride and self-centeredness has its roots all the way down into the depths of our hearts, sometimes we want to be close to God for our own sake. We seek him out not for the sake of his glory, but for our own consolation. But to enjoy someone's presence only for the way they make you feel is the most basic of relationships--that of a young child with its parents. And God is a Father to us, but he is so much more. He has called us to be his friends. And he beckons us toward maturity, toward a relationship that seeks and shares and rejoices together. A real relationship involves significant give-and-take, and our relationship with God is more "real" than any other.
Sometimes the only way we can actually learn to know God more intimately--to seek him out for his own sake and to appreciate him for who he is--is by the removal of the consolations of his presence from us. Sometimes, God is very hard to find. He can feel a universe away from us, and there is no sign that he either hears or cares about our prayers and devotions. To someone who has only ever been told that "Christianity is a relationship," this can be a bewildering time. How do you have a relationship with someone who simply isn't there? But the truth is, that's often how the Christian life feels. Very few believers enjoy the constant consolations of God's presence. More often there are the quiet emptinesses, the desolations of yearning. More often than not, our prayers seem like a one-way conversation. We try to listen, but all we hear is silence. For those believers who have been taught that prayer ought to be a genuine dialogue between them and God, there is no explanation for these long treks through the desert of God's silence.
So what do we do? I don't think we need to throw away the language of relationship, because our union with God certainly is that. But we need to teach people how to understand that relationship. It involves more than a sense of God's presence and the joyful expectation of interior peace. Sometimes it involves just the opposite--the desolations of God's silence. But tradition tells us that the latter experiences are more fruitful than the former. Those desolations and silences are the experiences that grow us toward maturity. We begin to understand that God is more than our intimate counselor, ready to soothe us at a moment's notice. He is king and friend, father and warrior, shepherd and judge. He is all this and infinitely more. He is the Endless All before which creation trembles. And he does not submit to our expectations. Rather, he weans us away from ourselves, making us able to see who he is in himself. It is a vision that we can't handle as beginners; we have no capacity to drink in the full wonder of the Godhead. But through the long, painful road of dying to self, which includes these droughts of God's emotional consolation, we are made, in the end, able to understand and experience (at least in part) the breathless, ineffable Person of God. This relationship is a journey, and because it is a relationship with God, it is like no other relationship. God is always near, and he does not abandon us, but he wants to lead us on the long road of knowing him. Only on that road does our relationship mature. Only on that road do we find open the possibility of resting in the presence of God like Moses did in the Tent of Meeting, as one friend with another.
And when we use the language of relationship, we should use it with caution, not only because it's an utterly unique relationship, but also because that idea, taken as the pattern of Christian life, is only sparsely found in the New Testament. That's not to say it isn't present. Certainly the NT speaks of us being "reconciled to God," and Jesus gives a long and intimate speech to his friends before his death. Because of the Spirit living in us, we can cry "Abba!" to God. But when the NT writers come down to talking about the true nature of Christianity in its practical form, they seldom use the idea of a personal relationship with God. Part of the reason, I suspect, is because they didn't conceive of the Christian life as a purely individual affair. Christianity, for them, was not the experience of "me and God." It was the experience of "God and us." We are all united together to the true vine. As a community of saints, we are together called and chosen and set apart to be a kingdom of priests. And there are many times when, in our journey with God, we see him most clearly in the lives and words of our brothers and sisters in Christ. When God seems distant in our prayers, he is near to us in one another. We need to understand that this "relationship with God" is not simply "my relationship with God." It's our relationship. What we do affects one another, even (perhaps especially) on the spiritual level. As a community of faith, we all have a stake in one another's walk with the Lord. That's why so much of the NT is not about prayer or one's personal devotional life (topics we might expect to find if we were trying to reconstruct the NT from the currently bestselling books on the Christian life), but rather, it's overwhelmingly about how we live in relationship with one another.
True religion--this relationship with God--does not find its clearest manifestation in the secret practices of individual devotion, but in care for widows, orphans, and the poor, in forgiveness and mutual submission, and in the practices of building one another up. God is not pleased with the man who spends hours in prayer and yet still deals harshly with his brother. An act of mercy is worth an hour of prayer.
In what is perhaps the most intimate, personally relational passage in the Bible, John 15, Jesus describes his love and friendship for the disciples. And he concludes the thought with his summation of what ought to characterize their lives, in light of his love:
"Love one another."
I understand the sentiment here. There's more to Christianity than rites and readings. It's a genuine, personal connection with a very real, very personal God. But if we leave it at merely the level of "Christianity is a relationship," then we run the risk of hindering our own spiritual growth and the growth of those around us. The truth is, Christianity is a relationship, but it's like no other relationship you've ever had. The interactions that constitute this personal relationship with God are so unlike any human relationship that the terminology of "relationship" can lead us to some false assumptions.
For instance, many people assume that they should always have an awareness of the presence of God with them. As with any dear friend, they yearn for closeness, for an emotional attachment that will bring them consolation in their empty moments. They want a safe refuge to run to, a place to feel accepted and secure.
But that's not always the way it is with God. Because pride and self-centeredness has its roots all the way down into the depths of our hearts, sometimes we want to be close to God for our own sake. We seek him out not for the sake of his glory, but for our own consolation. But to enjoy someone's presence only for the way they make you feel is the most basic of relationships--that of a young child with its parents. And God is a Father to us, but he is so much more. He has called us to be his friends. And he beckons us toward maturity, toward a relationship that seeks and shares and rejoices together. A real relationship involves significant give-and-take, and our relationship with God is more "real" than any other.
Sometimes the only way we can actually learn to know God more intimately--to seek him out for his own sake and to appreciate him for who he is--is by the removal of the consolations of his presence from us. Sometimes, God is very hard to find. He can feel a universe away from us, and there is no sign that he either hears or cares about our prayers and devotions. To someone who has only ever been told that "Christianity is a relationship," this can be a bewildering time. How do you have a relationship with someone who simply isn't there? But the truth is, that's often how the Christian life feels. Very few believers enjoy the constant consolations of God's presence. More often there are the quiet emptinesses, the desolations of yearning. More often than not, our prayers seem like a one-way conversation. We try to listen, but all we hear is silence. For those believers who have been taught that prayer ought to be a genuine dialogue between them and God, there is no explanation for these long treks through the desert of God's silence.
So what do we do? I don't think we need to throw away the language of relationship, because our union with God certainly is that. But we need to teach people how to understand that relationship. It involves more than a sense of God's presence and the joyful expectation of interior peace. Sometimes it involves just the opposite--the desolations of God's silence. But tradition tells us that the latter experiences are more fruitful than the former. Those desolations and silences are the experiences that grow us toward maturity. We begin to understand that God is more than our intimate counselor, ready to soothe us at a moment's notice. He is king and friend, father and warrior, shepherd and judge. He is all this and infinitely more. He is the Endless All before which creation trembles. And he does not submit to our expectations. Rather, he weans us away from ourselves, making us able to see who he is in himself. It is a vision that we can't handle as beginners; we have no capacity to drink in the full wonder of the Godhead. But through the long, painful road of dying to self, which includes these droughts of God's emotional consolation, we are made, in the end, able to understand and experience (at least in part) the breathless, ineffable Person of God. This relationship is a journey, and because it is a relationship with God, it is like no other relationship. God is always near, and he does not abandon us, but he wants to lead us on the long road of knowing him. Only on that road does our relationship mature. Only on that road do we find open the possibility of resting in the presence of God like Moses did in the Tent of Meeting, as one friend with another.
And when we use the language of relationship, we should use it with caution, not only because it's an utterly unique relationship, but also because that idea, taken as the pattern of Christian life, is only sparsely found in the New Testament. That's not to say it isn't present. Certainly the NT speaks of us being "reconciled to God," and Jesus gives a long and intimate speech to his friends before his death. Because of the Spirit living in us, we can cry "Abba!" to God. But when the NT writers come down to talking about the true nature of Christianity in its practical form, they seldom use the idea of a personal relationship with God. Part of the reason, I suspect, is because they didn't conceive of the Christian life as a purely individual affair. Christianity, for them, was not the experience of "me and God." It was the experience of "God and us." We are all united together to the true vine. As a community of saints, we are together called and chosen and set apart to be a kingdom of priests. And there are many times when, in our journey with God, we see him most clearly in the lives and words of our brothers and sisters in Christ. When God seems distant in our prayers, he is near to us in one another. We need to understand that this "relationship with God" is not simply "my relationship with God." It's our relationship. What we do affects one another, even (perhaps especially) on the spiritual level. As a community of faith, we all have a stake in one another's walk with the Lord. That's why so much of the NT is not about prayer or one's personal devotional life (topics we might expect to find if we were trying to reconstruct the NT from the currently bestselling books on the Christian life), but rather, it's overwhelmingly about how we live in relationship with one another.
True religion--this relationship with God--does not find its clearest manifestation in the secret practices of individual devotion, but in care for widows, orphans, and the poor, in forgiveness and mutual submission, and in the practices of building one another up. God is not pleased with the man who spends hours in prayer and yet still deals harshly with his brother. An act of mercy is worth an hour of prayer.
In what is perhaps the most intimate, personally relational passage in the Bible, John 15, Jesus describes his love and friendship for the disciples. And he concludes the thought with his summation of what ought to characterize their lives, in light of his love:
"Love one another."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)