[a response to Gary Gutting's NY Times blog, Epistemology and the End of the World]
I moderately disagree with this article - if we buy into what he's saying, I think the scope of the argument may quickly broaden to the point where we lose any sort of certainty that's not grounded in what Gutting considers to be epistemically grounded rationale.
This includes, I suspect, not only future and even theologically dubitable events (as the Rapture distinctly is), but also present and even past warranted belief, including concepts such as salvation, the existence of God, the revelation of God to man, etc. I think that his argument easily applies to the status of Scripture, belief in my own spiritual experiences, etc.
So, yes, Camping's predictions are indeed "ill-advised". But Gutting has just pointed out the obvious; Camping's predictions failed. He provides no alternative schema for justification.
What would be interesting would be his providing a counterexample, some sort of spiritual belief that does turn out to be warranted or grounded. That would draw a clear line dividing epistemically warranted and unwarranted spiritual belief. But he doesn't - leaving me suspecting that he would a priori regard all spiritual belief as resting on epistemically shaky grounds.
Showing posts with label theology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theology. Show all posts
Friday, June 17, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Mariology
A genuine question: how do Roman Catholic theologians view these verses?
" 27While he was saying these things, some woman lifted her voice above the murmur of the crowd: "Blessed the womb that carried you, and the breasts at which you nursed!"
" 27While he was saying these things, some woman lifted her voice above the murmur of the crowd: "Blessed the womb that carried you, and the breasts at which you nursed!"
28Jesus commented, "Even more blessed are those who hear God's Word and guard it with their lives!" (Luke 11:27-28).
Sunday, December 12, 2010
I want...
...to give more than I thought was possible.
...to give my life to a cause that most people think is beneath me.
...to care enough to let myself be hurt.
...to cry, to hunger, to be meek, to love peace, to be disliked enough that this applies to me.
...to believe that Love will not only always win, but has already won.
...to have hope that not only helps me live, but changes what I understand living to be.
...to give my life to a cause that most people think is beneath me.
...to care enough to let myself be hurt.
...to cry, to hunger, to be meek, to love peace, to be disliked enough that this applies to me.
...to believe that Love will not only always win, but has already won.
...to have hope that not only helps me live, but changes what I understand living to be.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
His children's wounds
The moon will shine like the sun, and the sunlight will be seven times brighter, like the light of seven full days, when the LORD binds up the bruises of his people and heals the wounds he inflicted.
-The Book of Isaiah, chapter 30, verse 26
A couple of days ago, I was catching up with a friend over lunch, who brought up a point upon which he had been recently dwelling: that salvation, for the Christian, is not only, directly, or even primarily deliverance from earthly poverty, injustice, wickedness, and the other evils that immediately assail us when we consider the world around us. Rather, salvation is, at least in major part, a work wherein God removes us from His wrath and delivers us into His favor. We have sinned ourselves into becoming the objects of divine justice; a situation from which we cannot extricate ourselves, but from which God's grace brings us forth.
With this fresh in my consideration, I found it intriguing that Isaiah points out that the wounds of Israel which cried out for healing have been inflicted by God - and were, in turn, divinely healed. It brought to mind Proverbs 27:6: "Faithful are the wounds of a friend." Yes, we can be wounded - even deeply so - by our loved ones. And sometimes such wounds come out of ignorance, or failure on their part: speaking rashly, unthinkingly, in haste or anger.
But often such wounds sting: not because of their intent, but because of our brokenness. A thoughtful bit of feedback clubs our overweening pride, or concern for our actions is taken as an affront to our carefully cultivated self-worth. And so we are hurt; not because our friends have spoken carelessly, in bad faith, but because our rose-tinted reproduction of ourselves is exposed as a poor Photoshop job, juxtaposed with the sharpness of reality.
And it's cause for thanks (mixed with a bit of chagrin) that our God is not a God who is interested in spinning a PR campaign to us; if we ask Him to speak Truth to us, He will show us the Truth.
So, yes: as we become His beloved children, the ones chosen to wrestle with Him, struggle with the truth, and run the long race to the end, we will find ourselves inflicted with divine wounds, wounds that cut through the surface of our lies and penetrate to the ugly (but redeemable!) reality underneath.
And the wonder of grace is that, having inflicted these wounds upon us, God immediately proceeds to turn and bandage them up, healing us at cost to Himself.
Incredible!
-The Book of Isaiah, chapter 30, verse 26
A couple of days ago, I was catching up with a friend over lunch, who brought up a point upon which he had been recently dwelling: that salvation, for the Christian, is not only, directly, or even primarily deliverance from earthly poverty, injustice, wickedness, and the other evils that immediately assail us when we consider the world around us. Rather, salvation is, at least in major part, a work wherein God removes us from His wrath and delivers us into His favor. We have sinned ourselves into becoming the objects of divine justice; a situation from which we cannot extricate ourselves, but from which God's grace brings us forth.
With this fresh in my consideration, I found it intriguing that Isaiah points out that the wounds of Israel which cried out for healing have been inflicted by God - and were, in turn, divinely healed. It brought to mind Proverbs 27:6: "Faithful are the wounds of a friend." Yes, we can be wounded - even deeply so - by our loved ones. And sometimes such wounds come out of ignorance, or failure on their part: speaking rashly, unthinkingly, in haste or anger.
But often such wounds sting: not because of their intent, but because of our brokenness. A thoughtful bit of feedback clubs our overweening pride, or concern for our actions is taken as an affront to our carefully cultivated self-worth. And so we are hurt; not because our friends have spoken carelessly, in bad faith, but because our rose-tinted reproduction of ourselves is exposed as a poor Photoshop job, juxtaposed with the sharpness of reality.
And it's cause for thanks (mixed with a bit of chagrin) that our God is not a God who is interested in spinning a PR campaign to us; if we ask Him to speak Truth to us, He will show us the Truth.
So, yes: as we become His beloved children, the ones chosen to wrestle with Him, struggle with the truth, and run the long race to the end, we will find ourselves inflicted with divine wounds, wounds that cut through the surface of our lies and penetrate to the ugly (but redeemable!) reality underneath.
And the wonder of grace is that, having inflicted these wounds upon us, God immediately proceeds to turn and bandage them up, healing us at cost to Himself.
Incredible!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Proverbs 20:13
"Do not love sleep or you will grow poor;
"stay awake and you will have food to spare."
"stay awake and you will have food to spare."
Thursday, June 3, 2010
a favorite
"For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal."
- Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal."
- Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Monday, April 12, 2010
what if
what if the Gospel is so big that even the people who get it wrong, still get it?
addendum (due to general confusion):
To anyone confused and wondering idly if I'm falling into heresy - some clarifications on this thought that came to me.
in brief, the setting was such: I was reading an LDS ("Mormon") friend's blog (what up, K, if you're reading this!), and she mentioned that her greatest passion was "for the Gospel".
It struck me how, as a Protestant Christian, I - and, I'm guessing, you guys - would say the exact same thing is our passion: the Gospel, the good news that God loves and saves a broken world. But yet we do mean, I think, fairly theologically different things when we say "I love the Gospel".
Then I flipped it - what if I approach the question, not from the angle of "what does it mean when I say - I love God", but from the angle of "what does it mean when God says - I love you"? To whom does He say this? Who can read John 1:12 ("Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God") and rejoice?
This extends to other communities. What about, for example, the Roman Catholic communion? I believe firmly that I fellowship with several Roman Catholic brothers and sisters; I love them, I trust that they love me, and, more importantly, I trust their love for God. I don't know if their doctrine is 100% correct - but I do believe that they are, underlying and interacting with their doctrinal belief, simply in love with Jesus Christ.
It makes me wonder what kind of thing the Gospel is. Is it something that we have to "know about" in order to obtain? I don't think many of us would want to say you have to understand philosophy about Jesus in order to receive love from Jesus - one reason being that this is actually impossible.
Now, when we ask questions about the Gospel, we're still talking about a pretty specific statement. Jeff points out to me that "the Gospel" is objectively defined, shaped by a specific and unique historical context.
My point isn't to be a universalist - saying, everyone, everywhere, is loving God. That's too broad, and it just rings untrue. That's not what I mean when I say, "getting it wrong."
What I do mean when I think about us "getting it wrong" is that I wonder what role knowledge and doctrine play in our love of God. God not as an abstract, nonspecific, vague concept, but God as a real, all-loving, all-powerful, incredibly present being whose presence and direct intervention is found throughout the world and human history. I think good teaching is vastly important - but even good teaching gets some details wrong sometimes. Does Jesus still love us when we make mistakes when talking about him?
...
This is meant to be a rhetorical question. The answer, I believe, is Yes.
But this begs a further question: "how many mistakes can we make, and still be talking about Jesus?"
And this is a very real question.
It's a big question: Which details matter? If you and I are both talking about our favorite cars, and I mention mine - the Mazda RX-7 FC3S - I might be picturing a white car, while you picture a red car. No big deal - we're still talking about the same thing.
But if I talk about an RX-7, and you picture a VW bug, or a horse, or a birthday cake, we're on pretty different pages. That's become a conversation whose details are so disconnected that it's not even a conversation "about" RX-7's any more.
And that's a question whose answer comes into focus when we humbly examine Scripture, seek God in prayer, listen to our mentors/disciplers, and so on.
addendum (due to general confusion):
To anyone confused and wondering idly if I'm falling into heresy - some clarifications on this thought that came to me.
in brief, the setting was such: I was reading an LDS ("Mormon") friend's blog (what up, K, if you're reading this!), and she mentioned that her greatest passion was "for the Gospel".
It struck me how, as a Protestant Christian, I - and, I'm guessing, you guys - would say the exact same thing is our passion: the Gospel, the good news that God loves and saves a broken world. But yet we do mean, I think, fairly theologically different things when we say "I love the Gospel".
Then I flipped it - what if I approach the question, not from the angle of "what does it mean when I say - I love God", but from the angle of "what does it mean when God says - I love you"? To whom does He say this? Who can read John 1:12 ("Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God") and rejoice?
This extends to other communities. What about, for example, the Roman Catholic communion? I believe firmly that I fellowship with several Roman Catholic brothers and sisters; I love them, I trust that they love me, and, more importantly, I trust their love for God. I don't know if their doctrine is 100% correct - but I do believe that they are, underlying and interacting with their doctrinal belief, simply in love with Jesus Christ.
It makes me wonder what kind of thing the Gospel is. Is it something that we have to "know about" in order to obtain? I don't think many of us would want to say you have to understand philosophy about Jesus in order to receive love from Jesus - one reason being that this is actually impossible.
Now, when we ask questions about the Gospel, we're still talking about a pretty specific statement. Jeff points out to me that "the Gospel" is objectively defined, shaped by a specific and unique historical context.
My point isn't to be a universalist - saying, everyone, everywhere, is loving God. That's too broad, and it just rings untrue. That's not what I mean when I say, "getting it wrong."
What I do mean when I think about us "getting it wrong" is that I wonder what role knowledge and doctrine play in our love of God. God not as an abstract, nonspecific, vague concept, but God as a real, all-loving, all-powerful, incredibly present being whose presence and direct intervention is found throughout the world and human history. I think good teaching is vastly important - but even good teaching gets some details wrong sometimes. Does Jesus still love us when we make mistakes when talking about him?
...
This is meant to be a rhetorical question. The answer, I believe, is Yes.
But this begs a further question: "how many mistakes can we make, and still be talking about Jesus?"
And this is a very real question.
It's a big question: Which details matter? If you and I are both talking about our favorite cars, and I mention mine - the Mazda RX-7 FC3S - I might be picturing a white car, while you picture a red car. No big deal - we're still talking about the same thing.
But if I talk about an RX-7, and you picture a VW bug, or a horse, or a birthday cake, we're on pretty different pages. That's become a conversation whose details are so disconnected that it's not even a conversation "about" RX-7's any more.
And that's a question whose answer comes into focus when we humbly examine Scripture, seek God in prayer, listen to our mentors/disciplers, and so on.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Grace. (3 of 3)
[The last in a series of posts on Grace, excerpted from personal correspondence.]
"can you struggle for grace? is it something to fight for?"
-I think you can struggle to give grace. But you can never struggle to receive it (because that would be earning it, making someone give you grace).
-But you can struggle with giving grace: because, like I said above, we're sinful. And because we're sinful, whatever we are supposed to do, we dislike doing; and whatever we're not supposed to do, we like doing. So, in the same way we were made to be like God, we were made to give grace; and, in the same way that we fail, daily, to be like God, we fail to give grace.
"if you have to fight for it is it somehow no longer grace?"
-I think it is still grace; the struggle, in the case of struggling to give grace, comes not because what you are giving is not truly grace; it comes because we, as flawed individuals, are unaccustomed to doing what is supposed to come naturally to us (in one of the analogies above: our lungs, filled with water, choke as we try to force in air).
"does it then equate to something akin to charity?"
-I think so. I think, really, that it all comes down to charity: our existence comes down to charity, to receiving something that is not ours to demand, but was, in God's abundance, God's to give.
"is that a totally irrelevant question if all of people's actions are a component of a god-given world?"
-I don't think it is. Yes, all of people's actions are a component of a God-given world; but just because we work within God's given framework doesn't mean that each individual action that we perform is directly licensed by and caused by God (if so, that's an incredibly messed-up version of a deity that I really don't want anything to do with). God created us with free will (if you want to talk about why, there's a whole separate discussion there), and I do think that us having free will is for the greater good. And I do think that God will, at the end of everything, make everything Right, for forever. But, in-between, there is a lot of us messing up, and God cleaning up after us, and us messing up again, etc.
Much love;
-jglc
"you can accept something with grace - like, without jealousy or anger or pride or vanity or whatnot."
-Right; I think that's true. This is a case of you extending grace to someone else, right: like taking someone's apology, when they have no way to force you to do it. "can you struggle for grace? is it something to fight for?"
-But you can struggle with giving grace: because, like I said above, we're sinful. And because we're sinful, whatever we are supposed to do, we dislike doing; and whatever we're not supposed to do, we like doing. So, in the same way we were made to be like God, we were made to give grace; and, in the same way that we fail, daily, to be like God, we fail to give grace.
"if you have to fight for it is it somehow no longer grace?"
"does it then equate to something akin to charity?"
"is that a totally irrelevant question if all of people's actions are a component of a god-given world?"
Much love;
-jglc
Friday, March 19, 2010
Grace. (2 of 3)
[The second in a series of reflections on Grace, excerpted from personal correspondence.]
Who Gets It?
I said that Grace is offered to all, and I think that is true. From the sickest pedophile, to the cleanest-living Mormon, to the most hypocritical Protestant, to the loneliest homeless kid. I do think that is true. And Grace is unconditionally offered: God does not discriminate based on past, present, or future sins; God is not interested in striking a bargain of good behavior with us. Grace is ours, free for the taking, and we can have total surety in the assurance that this grace is effective and aesthetically ideal.
But, as I mentioned above: "faith without works is dead." I do not think that this means that faith can be alive but then, due to a paucity of good works, sort of sputter off and die. But I think it does mean that there is real, living, Grace-giving faith; and a kind of faith that is faith in name only, faith that calls itself faith, that says outwardly "I have received Grace", but, on the inside, never really understands what Grace means. And a present, even if freely and repeatedly offered, if it is rejected, or left unopened, languishes in neglect.
Then there are the tricky cases: people who never hear about Christianity? People who were abused by religion, who now hate the word "God"? All the good people, who lead beautiful lives of selflessness and yet never assent to the truths of my particular form of theology. What about them?
I could go into great length on each case, but I think two broad strokes might suffice to give you the general picture: (1) Everyone, from the best of us, to the worst of us, has broken the relationship we were supposed to maintain with God. And, again, no matter how well we live - no matter how hard we try to undo our brokenness, or to earn it back - Grace cannot be earned. BUT: (2) I don't know what it means to accept Grace, either. I know it has something to do with loving God, with realizing our inability to do it on our own. But I do not know exactly what the minimum standard of "wanting to find God" is, to qualify one as having accepted the gift of Grace. But I'm not interested in the minimum: sure, maybe I'd be OK if I weren't actively working on my relationship with God. But, believing that this relationship is precisely the point of my existence, I would be silly to abandon it; and kind of a jerk to my friends, if I were to give up on them finding and cultivating the same relationship that brings me such total fulfillment.
What About Human Grace?
So, if we're talking about grace, it would be silly or dismissive to avoid talking about the grace that we, as humans, give one another. But, in order to get to the point where I can address this mundane human grace, I think we need to understand what I believe the greatest Grace to be: because the two are, in my mind, intrinsically the same.
There's this idea, in most religions, that God made Man in God's own image, right? Adam and Eve and all that stuff. And that doesn't mean (though maybe it does also mean this) that we look physically like God. That means that, whatever we do, is a reflection of something that God does or can do. So our love, our care, anything in our relationships with others is an imitation of God's Love, Care, and so on, in the same way that anything a man or woman does can be traced to their parents, mentors, friends, media inspirations, etc. (even if they have placed some innovative twist or spin on it).
[Last, to close: addressing questions raised.]
Who Gets It?
I said that Grace is offered to all, and I think that is true. From the sickest pedophile, to the cleanest-living Mormon, to the most hypocritical Protestant, to the loneliest homeless kid. I do think that is true. And Grace is unconditionally offered: God does not discriminate based on past, present, or future sins; God is not interested in striking a bargain of good behavior with us. Grace is ours, free for the taking, and we can have total surety in the assurance that this grace is effective and aesthetically ideal.
But, as I mentioned above: "faith without works is dead." I do not think that this means that faith can be alive but then, due to a paucity of good works, sort of sputter off and die. But I think it does mean that there is real, living, Grace-giving faith; and a kind of faith that is faith in name only, faith that calls itself faith, that says outwardly "I have received Grace", but, on the inside, never really understands what Grace means. And a present, even if freely and repeatedly offered, if it is rejected, or left unopened, languishes in neglect.
Then there are the tricky cases: people who never hear about Christianity? People who were abused by religion, who now hate the word "God"? All the good people, who lead beautiful lives of selflessness and yet never assent to the truths of my particular form of theology. What about them?
I could go into great length on each case, but I think two broad strokes might suffice to give you the general picture: (1) Everyone, from the best of us, to the worst of us, has broken the relationship we were supposed to maintain with God. And, again, no matter how well we live - no matter how hard we try to undo our brokenness, or to earn it back - Grace cannot be earned. BUT: (2) I don't know what it means to accept Grace, either. I know it has something to do with loving God, with realizing our inability to do it on our own. But I do not know exactly what the minimum standard of "wanting to find God" is, to qualify one as having accepted the gift of Grace. But I'm not interested in the minimum: sure, maybe I'd be OK if I weren't actively working on my relationship with God. But, believing that this relationship is precisely the point of my existence, I would be silly to abandon it; and kind of a jerk to my friends, if I were to give up on them finding and cultivating the same relationship that brings me such total fulfillment.
What About Human Grace?
So, if we're talking about grace, it would be silly or dismissive to avoid talking about the grace that we, as humans, give one another. But, in order to get to the point where I can address this mundane human grace, I think we need to understand what I believe the greatest Grace to be: because the two are, in my mind, intrinsically the same.
There's this idea, in most religions, that God made Man in God's own image, right? Adam and Eve and all that stuff. And that doesn't mean (though maybe it does also mean this) that we look physically like God. That means that, whatever we do, is a reflection of something that God does or can do. So our love, our care, anything in our relationships with others is an imitation of God's Love, Care, and so on, in the same way that anything a man or woman does can be traced to their parents, mentors, friends, media inspirations, etc. (even if they have placed some innovative twist or spin on it).
[Last, to close: addressing questions raised.]
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Grace. (1 of 3)
[Some thoughts on grace, excerpted from personal correspondence.]
All right.
You ready? Sit down for this one, it's gonna be long. Feel free to read thru in a few sittings.
I have been wanting to get back to this question, for quite some time.
Grace is such a difficult thing to talk about, primarily because it is so mystical (mystical in the purest, least "religiousy" way possible... mystical in the sense of transcending what we are used to thinking about), so personal, and so rarely seen. That said, I think that the core of Christian faith and belief must be Grace: so it is also an incredibly important thing to talk about. So I'll try.
Let me see... OK. First things first: I am gonna say what I think Grace is, including what it's not, where it comes from (both in a mundane and divine way, though [as you could probably guess] I think the two are actually the same), and then, based on those beliefs/definitions, address some questions commonly raised.
What Is Grace?
I think the simplest and most impactful definition I've heard is simply this: Grace is receiving what we don't deserve. But packed into that definition (really more of a description, actually), is a lot of mind-twisting thought.
For one: by definition, we cannot deserve grace. And thus, grace is something that cannot be worked for; nor can it be pursued, strived for (one of my favorite Bible verses says that "equality with God is not something to be grasped"), or earned in any way. This is one of the biggest, worst, most fundamental mistakes that people (even many of the Christian faithful) make: they confuse the grace of and from God with something that we work to get. And so you get people "doing the right things" to "stay out of hell".
Nahhhhh.
[Side note: there is a point to doing "good" things, even after receiving grace: doing good things is a response to receiving Grace. It serves as a sort of sign that receiving Grace has changed us, and that it has really impacted our lives in a meaningful and life-altering fashion (another favorite verse says, "faith without works is dead").]
So, grace is something that we don't deserve, but that we receive. More than that: Grace is something that we don't deserve, but we need. It is literally vital to us: without grace, not only will we die, but we are dead. Grace is like the air in CPR, being breathed into unresponsive lungs. The lungs are made for that air, will quickly die and atrophy without it, but cannot, on their own, pull that needed air into themselves.
Why is this? It seems stupid for something to be made (humans) that intrinsically need something that they cannot grab hold of (grace), right? What kind of designer (ahh shades of "intelligent design" rhetoric... sorry.) would do something as stupid and broken as that?
Why Do We Need Grace?
Well, it comes back to a pretty oft-repeated topic: sin. What we humans nowadays consider to be our "natural" state is not the state of our nature as intended at creation (and I don't mean some dogmatic anti-scientific Creationist creation, either, I mean, at the metaphysical point where God designed the human). We were created to love God and to be loved by God; to know our Creator and be known by the Creator. But at some point in the history of our race - a point that is repeated in each of our individual lives - we broke ourselves. We were greedy, or fearful, or weak in some other way, and we heeded our own understanding of our purpose instead of the understanding of our Creator. And so we removed ourselves from that love, care, and nurture that was supposed to be the air in our spiritual lungs, replacing it with some noxious fluid of our own creation. And so now we lie, on the beach of this earth, gasping for nourishment. It is my fault, not the Creator's.
But, thank God (literally), the Creator still has a purpose for us; God still holds onto God's perfect love for us, despite our having abandoned it. So God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves: the Creator seizes the Creation and provides for us. It is my absolute and convicted belief that the way in which God provided that Grace (which is, really, a sub-heading of the greater umbrella of Love) is by a living act of sacrifice, the act and person of Jesus Christ.
Because, you see, Grace is free and offered to all (we'll get to it), but it is not cheap: to breath air into a victim's lungs, the person administering CPR must sacrifice her own air, right? It takes work to resuscitate the near-dead.
So this great illness that besets us - this fragmented person, this broken identity, this thing that is not as it ought to be - has to be made right, at some great cost; and, in the Christian faith, that cost was Jesus Christ, a perfect God and a sinless (and hence unbroken) Man, condescending to our level and taking our sins on himself. Dirtying himself, to clean us off. Which we in no way deserved, but which God wanted to give us. No child deserves a present - have they ever truly earned it? - but yet good parents love to give good things to their capricious children :)
[Next: Who gets Grace? And then - closing questions.]
All right.
You ready? Sit down for this one, it's gonna be long. Feel free to read thru in a few sittings.
I have been wanting to get back to this question, for quite some time.
Grace is such a difficult thing to talk about, primarily because it is so mystical (mystical in the purest, least "religiousy" way possible... mystical in the sense of transcending what we are used to thinking about), so personal, and so rarely seen. That said, I think that the core of Christian faith and belief must be Grace: so it is also an incredibly important thing to talk about. So I'll try.
Let me see... OK. First things first: I am gonna say what I think Grace is, including what it's not, where it comes from (both in a mundane and divine way, though [as you could probably guess] I think the two are actually the same), and then, based on those beliefs/definitions, address some questions commonly raised.
What Is Grace?
I think the simplest and most impactful definition I've heard is simply this: Grace is receiving what we don't deserve. But packed into that definition (really more of a description, actually), is a lot of mind-twisting thought.
For one: by definition, we cannot deserve grace. And thus, grace is something that cannot be worked for; nor can it be pursued, strived for (one of my favorite Bible verses says that "equality with God is not something to be grasped"), or earned in any way. This is one of the biggest, worst, most fundamental mistakes that people (even many of the Christian faithful) make: they confuse the grace of and from God with something that we work to get. And so you get people "doing the right things" to "stay out of hell".
Nahhhhh.
[Side note: there is a point to doing "good" things, even after receiving grace: doing good things is a response to receiving Grace. It serves as a sort of sign that receiving Grace has changed us, and that it has really impacted our lives in a meaningful and life-altering fashion (another favorite verse says, "faith without works is dead").]
So, grace is something that we don't deserve, but that we receive. More than that: Grace is something that we don't deserve, but we need. It is literally vital to us: without grace, not only will we die, but we are dead. Grace is like the air in CPR, being breathed into unresponsive lungs. The lungs are made for that air, will quickly die and atrophy without it, but cannot, on their own, pull that needed air into themselves.
Why is this? It seems stupid for something to be made (humans) that intrinsically need something that they cannot grab hold of (grace), right? What kind of designer (ahh shades of "intelligent design" rhetoric... sorry.) would do something as stupid and broken as that?
Why Do We Need Grace?
Well, it comes back to a pretty oft-repeated topic: sin. What we humans nowadays consider to be our "natural" state is not the state of our nature as intended at creation (and I don't mean some dogmatic anti-scientific Creationist creation, either, I mean, at the metaphysical point where God designed the human). We were created to love God and to be loved by God; to know our Creator and be known by the Creator. But at some point in the history of our race - a point that is repeated in each of our individual lives - we broke ourselves. We were greedy, or fearful, or weak in some other way, and we heeded our own understanding of our purpose instead of the understanding of our Creator. And so we removed ourselves from that love, care, and nurture that was supposed to be the air in our spiritual lungs, replacing it with some noxious fluid of our own creation. And so now we lie, on the beach of this earth, gasping for nourishment. It is my fault, not the Creator's.
But, thank God (literally), the Creator still has a purpose for us; God still holds onto God's perfect love for us, despite our having abandoned it. So God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves: the Creator seizes the Creation and provides for us. It is my absolute and convicted belief that the way in which God provided that Grace (which is, really, a sub-heading of the greater umbrella of Love) is by a living act of sacrifice, the act and person of Jesus Christ.
Because, you see, Grace is free and offered to all (we'll get to it), but it is not cheap: to breath air into a victim's lungs, the person administering CPR must sacrifice her own air, right? It takes work to resuscitate the near-dead.
So this great illness that besets us - this fragmented person, this broken identity, this thing that is not as it ought to be - has to be made right, at some great cost; and, in the Christian faith, that cost was Jesus Christ, a perfect God and a sinless (and hence unbroken) Man, condescending to our level and taking our sins on himself. Dirtying himself, to clean us off. Which we in no way deserved, but which God wanted to give us. No child deserves a present - have they ever truly earned it? - but yet good parents love to give good things to their capricious children :)
[Next: Who gets Grace? And then - closing questions.]
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Responsibility of Christians in Art.
[A talk originally presented during Café a Dieu, at The Golden Center
The first personal encounter with art that I can recall comes from the age of ten, when my sister and I attended a class taught by a professional artist from our church. Once a week, we would pick up our sketchbooks and shoeboxes full of art supplies, be packed up in the back of our minivan, and dropped off at a church classroom. There, Mrs. Barrett would teach us about perspective, colors, or shading, then turn us loose, pencils and oil paints in hand. Our parents, as they arrived to pick us up, were be greeted by arms filled with paintings and sketches, the fruits of our labors and their monthly tuition checks.
Even now, returning home, I still occasionally come across sketchbooks filled with my youthful handiwork. Browsing through the artwork, I often wonder what my mother must have thought, every week, as her son returned bearing page after page of lovingly, painstakingly, and poorly drawn STAR WARS spaceships.
My mother has preserved sketchbooks that are literally filled, cover to cover, with illustrations of X-Wings, TIE Fighters, and the occasional attempt to illustrate the
By high school, I had begun to regard these drawings with a hint of embarrassment. It wasn’t that I had grown artistically; but I had grown ashamed of my youthful enthusiasm for Luke Skywalker. Recalling my younger artistic streak, I would wonder what could possibly have motivated my parents to store such pitiful things away so carefully.
Reflecting back now, I think I’ve begun to understand why my parents saved those drawings. It’s not that my art - in either content or execution - was of any aesthetic value. But they are still dear to them because of what they represent: memories of me running up to my mom after class, bearing my latest work, filled with the childish joy and simple pride of spending my youthful reserves of skill and energy to produce something just for her. And, while my mother has never been a STAR WARS fanatic, her love for me transformed my interests and delight into her own. For this reason, I think, my mother finds twofold pleasure in that artwork: first, as a symbol of her importance to me; and, second, as a genuine representation of me as I was at the time; my childhood interests and passions.
I suspect that the work of a Christian Artist is best performed when it stems from similar desires, turned towards God: beyond displays of ability, or the production of aesthetically stunning works, the Christian who finds herself engaged in Art is engaged in the same pursuit as that child painting, singing, or dancing for his loving parents: we are conveying, to God, His unequalled significance to us; and we are producing work that brings its audience into an honest encounter with the truth of our love and passions.
I. To convey to God our unequalled enjoyment of Him.
These may sound vague: what does it mean to tell God that He is of unequalled importance to us?
The first answer that springs to mind comes from the Protestant and Catholic catechisms, which open by addressing the goals of human existence: in the Reformed Church’s Westminster Shorter Catechism, the first question is asked, What is the chief end of man?, and this answer provided: Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever. Similarly, the Second Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church begins with a prologue that trumpets that “The Life of Man” has as its purpose “To Know and Love God”.
To Know God; to Glorify Him; to enjoy Him; to Love Him. If these are the primary ends for which we, as Christians, believe we have been created, how do we pursue them? How do we, limited, weak, fragile human beings, bring Glory to an almighty God?
In 1st Peter Chapter 2, Verse 9, the apostle writes that “you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, so that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.” Receiving the love and care of a vast and intimate God uniquely enables us to bring Him glory by proclaiming in His presence our joy at having seen ourselves “called out of darkness, into His wonderful light”. We were once guilty of an infinitely terrible crime, and faced with an infinite punishment, the only escape from which comes by an infinite grace, which, having been received, evokes in us infinite gratitude and joy.
And, in just the same way that my youthful dedication to my parents led me to hand them the fruits of my artistic labor – poorly executed, but faithfully offered – our infinite gratitude to God finds its expression in faithfully handing Him the poor fruits of our lives: our paintings and poems, songs and dances. In every facet of our selves, including the artistic, it is right to find ourselves desiring, first and foremost, to bring God praise, by demonstrating the quality and abundance of our lives in Him. As we begin to understand what it really means to be saved by grace, this desire to respond in joyful gratitude begins to push out all the other competing desires and patrons clamoring for our attention and service.
But, there is an objection that can be raised to all this; after all, it may sound troubling to limit the scope of our artistic expression simply to those things which bring God glory. After all, why can’t we let art be free of such external constraints, let it simply be “art for art’s sake”?
Well, for one thing, love, even as it brings freedom, also necessitates limits. Any mutual love imposes on the lives of those whom it touches; but it is a joyful imposition! Yes, Love limits us; it limits us in our impatience, when we desire to withhold forgiveness; It restrains us in our jealousy, in our boasting, in our pride, and in our anger. Love, when truly tasted, makes us long to stare into its depths and lose sight of everything else as we contemplate and adore the object of our love.
II. To provide audiences an honest encounter with the truth we find surrounding us.
And also, by saying that our art should bring God glory, I don’t simply mean that the truths we convey have to be uniformly pleasant.
A natural part of becoming a Christian is that a man gradually finds himself peering into two worlds at once: the world that is “real-at-the-moment”, and the world of “actual reality.” The world of the moment is the world of suffering, of distance, of sin; but, being brought more and more sharply into focus as we grow more familiar with God, is the world as it actually was intended to be: a world of peace, of intimacy, of healing and loving unity.
This is what I mean by saying that it the second goal of the Christian Artist to provide the audience with an honest encounter of truth: God’s revelation of Himself – at once intimately personal and immensely large-scale – provides the Christian with two points of view, both of which serve the artist as inspiration. To limit the scope of artistic revelation to one or another of these viewpoints rings false: while our hope is sure and our faith secure, to claim that we can distill our experience of Christ into feel-good, pastel-colored images of serenity and passivity is a dramatic oversimplification. If we do so, we create kitsch, a shallow sentimentality that is the opposite of Good Art, because it has no connection to the complex experiences and dreams of the audiences we invite to partake in the artistic experience with us.
The opposite oversimplification – presenting the dire state of sin, while withholding a sense of overpowering hope – is equally poor art, for it is also untrue. As Christians, for whom “in all things, we are more than conquerors, because of Christ who loved us” (Rom. 8:37), it is disingenuous to pretend that our eternal well-being can be jeopardized by the passing and momentary ills of this world.
We Christians have space to discuss both despair and hope precisely because our hope can be counted on to endure. In the Christian life, there is room for both the sad truth of the fallen world as well as the glad tidings of the redemption that is beginning to shine through its cracks. After all, without death, resurrection is meaningless; but, without resurrection, death is simply a cold, inevitable end-of-story. So it is necessary to present, in our every creative work, the full trajectory of the Gospel, never shrinking from honestly portraying the total story of fallenness and redemption; but always hinting at glimpses of the Hope to overcome the despair, and the Comforter who seeks us out in our loneliness.
Art expresses the truth, hope, and passion that we have found, or want to find, in the world around us. At age 10, I found my passion in STAR WARS; and my art reflected that. But now, for today, and tomorrow, and increasingly as the days pass, that passion is focused on the being and character of God. And I hope that the work of my hands can come to daily reflect that focused passion more and more.
Once, I drew pictures of spaceships, and happily presented the results of my work to my parents. Today, right now, we are all creating, not just as artists, but as humans going about our daily lives. I pray that we can, one day, happily present the results to our Heavenly Father.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
In the Beginning.
Even the humblest of things can spring from a humble beginning; and this is, I fear, the humblest of beginnings. A free registration, a quick import - and done!
For a long time, I have been using various personal blogs (first my now-long-obsolete Xanga; and then my current blogspot, American Dream, Chinese Hero) to publicly muse and comment on this journey of faith within which I find myself; and all the topics thusly pertinent.
And so, one might have found within a week, posts on a new hot verse from Joe Budden, pictures of my new sneakers; photographs from a church event, commentary on race relations in Korea, and reflections on Scripture.
This multiple-personality digital beast had, somewhat sadly, to go: and now I find myself with a hydra of sorts, with this present blog being the head speaking most, I think, confusedly and blasphemously (I pray not).
For formal and informal reflections on Evangelicalism, ministry, the global Church, Scripture, and faith, seeking my name will henceforth be my venue of expression.
Names, in short, have power: when they are forced onto us (as by a schoolyard bully), they are repugnant, hateful, instruments of spite and derision. When snatched from the lips of a lover, they are glorious, shimmering, eternal things.
As a Christian, one of the things to which I cling dearly - desperately - is the thought that my name - given to me not only by my earthly parents, but my eternal Father - is written "in the Book of Life", a book within which no hand could ever dare raise the power to blot or inscribe a single character.
The Biblical conception of naming is an interesting thing: not only does a name describe who we are, a well-chosen name - a true name, as it were - prophecies (tells the truth) about who we will be. Names are not only references, but serve as stories - signifiers - prescriptions.
As a young, immature man seeking - seeking Christ, God, Grace, and Love - I think, ultimately, I and all others who are on a journey of faith are simply seeking our names. Our true, eternal, right names.
In short
For a long time, I have been using various personal blogs (first my now-long-obsolete Xanga; and then my current blogspot, American Dream, Chinese Hero) to publicly muse and comment on this journey of faith within which I find myself; and all the topics thusly pertinent.
And so, one might have found within a week, posts on a new hot verse from Joe Budden, pictures of my new sneakers; photographs from a church event, commentary on race relations in Korea, and reflections on Scripture.
This multiple-personality digital beast had, somewhat sadly, to go: and now I find myself with a hydra of sorts, with this present blog being the head speaking most, I think, confusedly and blasphemously (I pray not).
For formal and informal reflections on Evangelicalism, ministry, the global Church, Scripture, and faith, seeking my name will henceforth be my venue of expression.
Names, in short, have power: when they are forced onto us (as by a schoolyard bully), they are repugnant, hateful, instruments of spite and derision. When snatched from the lips of a lover, they are glorious, shimmering, eternal things.
As a Christian, one of the things to which I cling dearly - desperately - is the thought that my name - given to me not only by my earthly parents, but my eternal Father - is written "in the Book of Life", a book within which no hand could ever dare raise the power to blot or inscribe a single character.
The Biblical conception of naming is an interesting thing: not only does a name describe who we are, a well-chosen name - a true name, as it were - prophecies (tells the truth) about who we will be. Names are not only references, but serve as stories - signifiers - prescriptions.
As a young, immature man seeking - seeking Christ, God, Grace, and Love - I think, ultimately, I and all others who are on a journey of faith are simply seeking our names. Our true, eternal, right names.
In short
- American Dream, Chinese Hero will continue on as my informal personal blog, for dissemination of photographs, personal updates, and my music.
- Iason De Silentio - a formal ethnic studies blog, particularly touching on current events, Asian and Asian-American studies, hip-hop culture, and philosophy (primarily ethics) blog.
- and finally, as you have no doubt discovered, seeking my name - A reflective and contemplative faith and ministry blog, discussing Christian living, Evangelicalism, Scripture, and theology.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
An exercise
"Jesus’ College is the only one in which God’s truth can be really learned; other schools may teach us what is to be believed, but Christ’s alone can show us how to believe it."
- Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening, Evening Jan. 19.
Recently, a friend lent me God in the Dock, a collected edition of C.S. Lewis' minor writings and shorter presentations. Among them is Meditation in a Toolshed, a brief piece in which Lewis speaks about the distinction between looking at and looking along. Reading tonight's Morning and Evening - a twice-daily devotional to which I have often turned in my quiet times of contemplation - I was struck by the parallel thrust of Spurgeon's rumination.
In Toolshed, Lewis distinguishes looking at from looking along along an experiential axis, similar to the research method distinction between, respectively, grounded theory and participant-observer strategies of data collection and interpretation. In short, the metaphor Lewis constructs is based on the familiar analogy of revelation as a source of light: envisioning a beam of light cast onto an object, looking at the ray grants information about the light itself, while looking along the light reveals knowledge about the source and target of the emission.
Lewis' privileging the latter over the former seems a priori, but I think that there are fair arguments to be made in support of looking along versus looking at. Both positions bear reasonable and seemingly non-trivial epistemic value. But what may grant us liberty to preference looking along over looking at is the existence of convincing order in the revelation.
That is to say, revelation, and specifically the Christian revelation, is itself ordered in an intuitively convincing manner: a beam of light hitting the blank wall of the toolshed may be dismissed as a random structural failure, while a beam of light illuminating a carving on the ground is not so easily dismissed. The question then is whether the information revealed by participating in the Christian process - looking along - is of the former or latter quality.
Adding to the difficulty of processing this information is the hypothesis that the results are biased through human intervention. After all, alternative beams of light exist, striking seemingly intentional points on the ground, and it seems a fairly foundational part of participating in looking along that looking along one source of revelation is mutually exclusive with others. So, one of the common claims of those looking along a particular light is that the other lights are false constructs, illuminating points (metaphysical/theological points, that is) that may seem appealing but are, in fact, only so because they are intended by human effort to be so rather than divine effort.
Spurgeon's quote is situated in similarly hairy territory. All the issues raised with Lewis' beliefs - and more - can apply here. It is interesting that both predicate "real learning" with participation: learning is distinguished from learning about. There is something about active, personal, engagement that is valuable to both authors - and it is very attractive to me, too. But it seems as though much post-Enlightenment/Rationalist thought has found itself striking an antagonistic position, claiming that personal investment in a situation has quite the opposite effect: rather than granting knowledge in a particularly valuable way, it taints what data is gathered. Is this an intractable disagreement? One wonders.
There are far more issues in this exploration than I can adequately here address. I like both the ideas expressed by Lewis and Spurgeon. In both cases, there is great intuitive appeal, but it is difficult to articulate the basis - defending the premises - of the appeal. Perhaps one either "feels it" or doesn't.
Merely an exercise in rigour.
- Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening, Evening Jan. 19.
Recently, a friend lent me God in the Dock, a collected edition of C.S. Lewis' minor writings and shorter presentations. Among them is Meditation in a Toolshed, a brief piece in which Lewis speaks about the distinction between looking at and looking along. Reading tonight's Morning and Evening - a twice-daily devotional to which I have often turned in my quiet times of contemplation - I was struck by the parallel thrust of Spurgeon's rumination.
In Toolshed, Lewis distinguishes looking at from looking along along an experiential axis, similar to the research method distinction between, respectively, grounded theory and participant-observer strategies of data collection and interpretation. In short, the metaphor Lewis constructs is based on the familiar analogy of revelation as a source of light: envisioning a beam of light cast onto an object, looking at the ray grants information about the light itself, while looking along the light reveals knowledge about the source and target of the emission.
Lewis' privileging the latter over the former seems a priori, but I think that there are fair arguments to be made in support of looking along versus looking at. Both positions bear reasonable and seemingly non-trivial epistemic value. But what may grant us liberty to preference looking along over looking at is the existence of convincing order in the revelation.
That is to say, revelation, and specifically the Christian revelation, is itself ordered in an intuitively convincing manner: a beam of light hitting the blank wall of the toolshed may be dismissed as a random structural failure, while a beam of light illuminating a carving on the ground is not so easily dismissed. The question then is whether the information revealed by participating in the Christian process - looking along - is of the former or latter quality.
Adding to the difficulty of processing this information is the hypothesis that the results are biased through human intervention. After all, alternative beams of light exist, striking seemingly intentional points on the ground, and it seems a fairly foundational part of participating in looking along that looking along one source of revelation is mutually exclusive with others. So, one of the common claims of those looking along a particular light is that the other lights are false constructs, illuminating points (metaphysical/theological points, that is) that may seem appealing but are, in fact, only so because they are intended by human effort to be so rather than divine effort.
Spurgeon's quote is situated in similarly hairy territory. All the issues raised with Lewis' beliefs - and more - can apply here. It is interesting that both predicate "real learning" with participation: learning is distinguished from learning about. There is something about active, personal, engagement that is valuable to both authors - and it is very attractive to me, too. But it seems as though much post-Enlightenment/Rationalist thought has found itself striking an antagonistic position, claiming that personal investment in a situation has quite the opposite effect: rather than granting knowledge in a particularly valuable way, it taints what data is gathered. Is this an intractable disagreement? One wonders.
There are far more issues in this exploration than I can adequately here address. I like both the ideas expressed by Lewis and Spurgeon. In both cases, there is great intuitive appeal, but it is difficult to articulate the basis - defending the premises - of the appeal. Perhaps one either "feels it" or doesn't.
Merely an exercise in rigour.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
truer words
"Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you."
I love these words.
I love these words.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
A thought
Arrogance has been on my mind a lot, recently.
I've been perusing some of the writings of Canadian Skeptic James Randi, listening to recordings of the aggressive Atheist debate of Richard Dawkins, and reading through weblogs self-identified with the freethought and Brights movements, in addition to exploring conversation with quite radically anti-religious persons (dialogue being altogether too bilateral a label for what I've experienced).
The standard rhetorical aesthetic of such fora of discussion seem to be a self-righteous anti-religiosity; transcending the boundaries of cheerily areligious belief, the new wave in modern atheism seems to have a bitterly antagonistic bent towards religion, a condescending, sneering sort of spite directed towards the faithful. In such systems, characterizations of theist beliefs often involves words and phrases such as the following: "magic," "imaginary friend," "arbitrary," "unfounded," &c.
Such discussions, and their underpinnings, truly sadden me for two reasons: (I) First, and primarily, as one who believes - intimately, personally - in the being of a loving, wonderful, perfectly fulfilling God who has created and does sustain all of existence, it saddens me that there are people who would so decisively and boldly cut away the possibility of a relationship with that loving God. All rhetorical flourishes aside, the loss of an inexhaustible source of infinite care and grace, even if only metaphysically so, seems as though it ought to bring grief in some degree.
For this reason, I don't feel quite the same way for those atheists who renounce God, but do so with a sense of the loss of the sweetness of what could have been: I can empathize with the humanness of loudly pronouncing, God is not; but, whispering, if only he were. But the point of view that I have recently encountered - rare, I think, in my postmodern surroundings - and that which has been grieving me, is the outright arrogant proclamation: God is not, and it's damn finer than if he were!
If God is not truth, but tale, might we at least admit the beauty of the story‽
(II), such discussions do elicit a fair degree of nervousness in myself: how much of such militant and callous opposition to the very concept of God is social karma for the past wrongs of "Christianity" [the sum of Christians-in-name] (or Christianity [the sum of Christians-in-truth, putatively distinct])? Was there an era - or manifold periods? - in Christian history where theologians, being found bearing the greater weight of authority in their respective societies, were found so overbearing, cocky, swaggering in their clerical roles, that they thus disparaged those honest dissenters in their midst?
Do I? Regularly, I'm sure. How often, in my own unthinking stagger through life, have I hurt, damaged, even spited others, and all while proclaiming, in my best Christian guise, to be an earthly representative of the all-loving Heavenly Father? Of course, I've spoken faithful testimony of being a "broken human being," to being a "sinner in constant need of grace". But has my life born witness to these truths? Or has my life reflected a know-it-all, condescending, self-proselytizing wretch content and happy to sow self-glorifying pride?
A thought.
[edit: 3:35 PM] And, to make it explicitly clear: The arrogance to which I'm referring does not fall exclusively within the atheist camp. My attention has been drawn, increasingly, to my own personal arrogance, theological, intellectual, and otherwise in nature, the pervasive reality of which is pretty challenging and self-perception-shattering (or perhaps, better put, is spurring me on towards redrawing my self-perception).
I've been perusing some of the writings of Canadian Skeptic James Randi, listening to recordings of the aggressive Atheist debate of Richard Dawkins, and reading through weblogs self-identified with the freethought and Brights movements, in addition to exploring conversation with quite radically anti-religious persons (dialogue being altogether too bilateral a label for what I've experienced).
The standard rhetorical aesthetic of such fora of discussion seem to be a self-righteous anti-religiosity; transcending the boundaries of cheerily areligious belief, the new wave in modern atheism seems to have a bitterly antagonistic bent towards religion, a condescending, sneering sort of spite directed towards the faithful. In such systems, characterizations of theist beliefs often involves words and phrases such as the following: "magic," "imaginary friend," "arbitrary," "unfounded," &c.
Such discussions, and their underpinnings, truly sadden me for two reasons: (I) First, and primarily, as one who believes - intimately, personally - in the being of a loving, wonderful, perfectly fulfilling God who has created and does sustain all of existence, it saddens me that there are people who would so decisively and boldly cut away the possibility of a relationship with that loving God. All rhetorical flourishes aside, the loss of an inexhaustible source of infinite care and grace, even if only metaphysically so, seems as though it ought to bring grief in some degree.
For this reason, I don't feel quite the same way for those atheists who renounce God, but do so with a sense of the loss of the sweetness of what could have been: I can empathize with the humanness of loudly pronouncing, God is not; but, whispering, if only he were. But the point of view that I have recently encountered - rare, I think, in my postmodern surroundings - and that which has been grieving me, is the outright arrogant proclamation: God is not, and it's damn finer than if he were!
If God is not truth, but tale, might we at least admit the beauty of the story‽
(II), such discussions do elicit a fair degree of nervousness in myself: how much of such militant and callous opposition to the very concept of God is social karma for the past wrongs of "Christianity" [the sum of Christians-in-name] (or Christianity [the sum of Christians-in-truth, putatively distinct])? Was there an era - or manifold periods? - in Christian history where theologians, being found bearing the greater weight of authority in their respective societies, were found so overbearing, cocky, swaggering in their clerical roles, that they thus disparaged those honest dissenters in their midst?
Do I? Regularly, I'm sure. How often, in my own unthinking stagger through life, have I hurt, damaged, even spited others, and all while proclaiming, in my best Christian guise, to be an earthly representative of the all-loving Heavenly Father? Of course, I've spoken faithful testimony of being a "broken human being," to being a "sinner in constant need of grace". But has my life born witness to these truths? Or has my life reflected a know-it-all, condescending, self-proselytizing wretch content and happy to sow self-glorifying pride?
A thought.
[edit: 3:35 PM] And, to make it explicitly clear: The arrogance to which I'm referring does not fall exclusively within the atheist camp. My attention has been drawn, increasingly, to my own personal arrogance, theological, intellectual, and otherwise in nature, the pervasive reality of which is pretty challenging and self-perception-shattering (or perhaps, better put, is spurring me on towards redrawing my self-perception).
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Prologue
I begin this work in 5 minutes. Time to get focused.
Our Father Who art in Heaven;
Guide my attitude, that I might not sin against these little ones.
Guide my words, that I might teach them well.
Sanctify my heart; purify my mind; enlighten my soul.
Ad maiorem Dei gloriam, Amen
Our Father Who art in Heaven;
Guide my attitude, that I might not sin against these little ones.
Guide my words, that I might teach them well.
Sanctify my heart; purify my mind; enlighten my soul.
Ad maiorem Dei gloriam, Amen
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Question on Lewis
Famously from Lewis's Weight of Glory:
"We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased."
What happens when mud pies become genuinely (though not necessarily actually) more attractive than a holiday at the sea?
"We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased."
What happens when mud pies become genuinely (though not necessarily actually) more attractive than a holiday at the sea?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
对我妹妹很骄傲
I'm proud of my sister... she recently turned 20, but that's not the real salient point here... To commemorate her 20th year on top the earth she wrote a post summing up some thoughts & transformations that been going on in her mind-grapes:
"What Not Dating For 20 Years Has Taught Me About God
"It's an interesting feeling to be twenty and to have never dated anyone, and on purpose at that, LOL. God has made it amazing, and powerful, and wonderful. It's only scary when I'm not trusting God, which is always a powerful reminder to do so - one that I really need. I've felt God give me purpose and fulfillment and love and joy and peace, and been able to know that it's all from Him. So really, the title of this note should start off with "What God Has Taught Me." It's mostly interesting because I know that so far I've made the right choices as far as God's plan for me, and it's helped me personally honor God and grow in my relationship with Him.
"I just kind of wanted to reflect on what God's done after two decades. Cuz that's kind of a long time...."
(full public post here)
"What Not Dating For 20 Years Has Taught Me About God
"It's an interesting feeling to be twenty and to have never dated anyone, and on purpose at that, LOL. God has made it amazing, and powerful, and wonderful. It's only scary when I'm not trusting God, which is always a powerful reminder to do so - one that I really need. I've felt God give me purpose and fulfillment and love and joy and peace, and been able to know that it's all from Him. So really, the title of this note should start off with "What God Has Taught Me." It's mostly interesting because I know that so far I've made the right choices as far as God's plan for me, and it's helped me personally honor God and grow in my relationship with Him.
"I just kind of wanted to reflect on what God's done after two decades. Cuz that's kind of a long time...."
(full public post here)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Christmas Songs in February
There's something right about listening to a Christmas song in February.
With the bout of advertisements and seasonal jingles ringing through the air, Christmas can be - has become? - passe by December. Christus missus est ("Christ has come"), but so have Toys 'R' Us, Wal*Mart, and Best Buy, for all his consumer children.
But in February, snow lies dense on the ground; it was a brisk day, a sharp day, a clear day. I'm a little tired, and I'm nursing a little bit of a cold. It's late enough in the semester for me to have made mistakes, and plenty; early enough that I'm still uncertain about the rest of the school year. What might Spring's warmth bring? What shape will this semester take?
It seems like there's room for hope; and right now, with no holiday in sight, I feel readily the need for a Christmas (mas Cristo?) more than I did in December, December with its heady air of holiday and presents, home, finals, excitement.
So, you know, I listen to a Christmas song.
With the bout of advertisements and seasonal jingles ringing through the air, Christmas can be - has become? - passe by December. Christus missus est ("Christ has come"), but so have Toys 'R' Us, Wal*Mart, and Best Buy, for all his consumer children.
But in February, snow lies dense on the ground; it was a brisk day, a sharp day, a clear day. I'm a little tired, and I'm nursing a little bit of a cold. It's late enough in the semester for me to have made mistakes, and plenty; early enough that I'm still uncertain about the rest of the school year. What might Spring's warmth bring? What shape will this semester take?
It seems like there's room for hope; and right now, with no holiday in sight, I feel readily the need for a Christmas (mas Cristo?) more than I did in December, December with its heady air of holiday and presents, home, finals, excitement.
So, you know, I listen to a Christmas song.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Praying hands.
[Image source: Microsoft Word Clipart]
Since my youth, I have long felt little connection to the many visual postures of prayer that often populate our Christian lives. The traditional image set forth of our pleas and petitions to God - two hands pressed lightly against each other, palms gently folded together in quietude and stillness of mind - was so thoroughly static, so devoid of vitality and vivacity, that it assailed even my young, malformed images of entering the Presence.
So it was that, even in my old listless dearth of faith, showing up to church with no pleas, no longings, and no desire for renewal, I began praying with fingers interwoven, hands clenched together, grasping at one another for support and mutual affirmation. Even as my heart and soul shrugged their way methodically, mechanically, through a yet-another (as in, "yet another Sunday service, prayer meeting, family prayer, etc."), at least my body found tension, dynamism, movement. But not growth.
Still, this manual configuration, of digits weaving and palms pressing, was the natural mold into which my hands fell even as I found - again, or for the first time, depending upon whose soteriology and ontology you lean - the brilliance and joy of a life lived in concert with that Holy Love (ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ), the Divine Father, the Great Friend. As my soul began wrestling with Truth - with conflict, with the ideal-real disparity, with the weight and depth of my own sin (and the corresponding value and immensity of Grace) - the twists and turns of my hands were filled with new spiritual life, a physical metaphor of the incredibly more real spiritual struggle and discovery.
Recently, however, I've been rediscovering the classic posture of prayer. It's not that I've altogether abandoned my childhood or the ways of my younger Christian faith in favor of a mature devotion: that would be giving my contemporary practices far too much credit.
Rather, I've unearthed the traditional configuration of praying hands for what it ought to be: these hands are not destined to merely be soft planes joined palm-to-palm in silent, motionless repose. No, they push together, inwards. They splay together, forearms pressing, fingertips tensed against one another; they stand at rest, but not for lack of intensity. No, tension is in them; it may be inherent, or potential. There is potency in each half of a pair of praying hands; they are joined together not of convenience or aesthetic ease, but because the forcefulness of each plane, on its own, needs its twin. And yes, sometimes my joints slide past one another, and the digits interface; but when my hands interlock in this manner, it can often feel as though I have simply come to a conflicted standstill.
When my hands press and push against one another, though - as my thoughts do, as this world and God's Word do - then sometimes I feel my spirit rising up.
Knowing that conflict, even unresolved, does often stand as the breath of wind's currents, pushing up against me, prompting, provoking, pressuring me to less of me, more of You, God.
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