A Sermon for Grace (circa January 1997)

This evening I have a rare opportunity to speak as a pastor and a father during the dedication of our daughter to the Lord. I know that my comments tonight are no more unusual than those that would be offered by any father who could speak his thoughts before this congregation. Yet, I am compelled to speak not simply because I am your pastor, but more importantly to me, because I am Grace’s father. And, if there were ever a time that I would want to offer a sermon just for her, it would be now, before she hears too much. For the world is filled with opinions, competing voices that masquerade as friends with good advice. Since Grace is only two months old, the only voices that seem to matter to her now are her mother’s, brother’s, sister’s, and father’s. When I enter her room, she turns her head to look for me, as if I’m the only one she hears. I like it when she looks at me. But recently, the joy of her steady gaze has brought to my mind the weighty responsibility that I will be a voice that she will count on when she makes her way into the noisy world. As she grows up, I don’t expect to drown out the sound of other’s with my opinion—even when I shout in a heated argument over a boy friend, or school work, or career choices, or life decisions. But I don’t want to be ignored, either. It’s too much to expect that she will always hear the voice of God in my words; she will not always heed my advice and I will not always speak the words of God. Nevertheless, I’m hoping and praying that, tonight, as we entrust the care of our children to Our Heavenly Father, my daughter will stand one day before a congregation of believers, dedicating her daughter to the Lord with the same anxious desires, trusting that God will do for her child what He has done for my child. This sermon is for Grace.

I’ve been spending some time recently in the book of Job. Grace, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. The timing of your arrival, the third child in our family, has nothing to do with my interest in Job’s story. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how vulnerable we are as humans—how risky life is. Many of us would like to think that life comes with a promise of satisfaction guaranteed. But that is not the case. None of us knows what will happen tomorrow. Uncertainty leads to anxiety because every day we read in the papers, hear in news reports, that someone else has fallen—knocked down by the unsuspecting blows of evil and suffering. We wonder if it will ever happen to us, if the difficulties of life will fall upon our family, robbing us of the joy of living. That’s why we are all drawn to the story of Job. As a book of Wisdom, I’ve been searching its pages looking for clues, knowing that his story could be my story, your story, our story.

Job is every man. His desire to protect his children from the result of their sin illustrates very well the paternal impulse of every father. From the moment that your mother and I were told that you would be born, I’ve had this powerful urge to do everything I can to protect you. Sometimes, I feel like its my responsibility to keep you from harm, to ward off any possibility that you could be hurt, to protect your welfare. As parents, we all fall into the trap of thinking that we can create a utopia for our children, a garden of Eden, where life will always be as pleasant as taking a walk in the coolness of a summer night, and where the effort of your hands will always produce crops without weeds. But then we remember that we don’t live in Eden, that we have welcomed you into a world filled with thorns and thistles, and (the most sobering thought of all) that we are not creators—we are creatures of God’s hand just like you, just like Job. That’s the lesson, ultimately, that Job learned: that he is not God. It sounds too simple to be profound. You would think that, as human beings, we would never get our roles mixed up with God’s. But we do. Made in His Image, we are able to protect sometimes, create sometimes, rule sometimes, will our will sometimes. We have just enough success to foster this grand idea that we can control our destinies, that we have the power to create the future, that we can protect, defend, insure our own welfare as well as the welfare of our children. But then life reminds us, just as He reminded Job, that the world is fragile, time is uncertain, and that we are not our own.
Grace, I can be your father; I cannot be your God. Many things are out of my hands, beyond my control. I have to trust God that He cares for you more than your mother and I do. That He has your best interests at heart, that He will watch over you when I cannot, that He will guide you when I am gone, that He will be your God.

To be sure, I’ve made the mistake (perhaps like Job) of trying to be all things for my family. Although God has given me the privilege of experiencing the joy of fathering children, He will not share the exclusive right of being The Provider for all children. He reminds me of that often. When we brought your brother home from the hospital, like most first-time parents, neither your mother nor I could sleep that first night. Both of us kept waking up, putting our hands on his little body to make sure that he was still breathing. After surviving a few nights at home, we began to gain the confidence that we could do this—that we could watch over our child and protect him from harm. But things got progressively worse. As Andrew grew, life got riskier. At first, he was a one-dimensional creature. We put him on the blanket, he stayed on the blanket. We could even leave the room, return, and still find him where we left him. But then, he developed into a two-dimensional creature. He starting crawling around, moving to and fro. We found that we could no longer leave him in a room for any length of time. Evidently, all those times he looked liked he was innocently entertaining himself, looking around the room unable to go anywhere, he was secretly planning his strategy, taking inventory of everything he wanted to get his hands on when he could crawl. Not to be outdone by a six-month old, your mother and I secured the premises, trying to make our home child-proof. Just when we thought we had everything under control, Andrew graduated to three-dimensional status. He joined the world of the vertical. He learned to walk. At first, I tried to go everywhere he went, anticipating every fall, removing every obstacle. But that didn’t last long. Bumps and bruises are the prices paid for experimenting with the laws of gravity. I found that I was better at damage control than creating the optimum environment where a baby could learn to walk without the risk of falling. To pick him up when he fell, to doctor a scrape on his knee, to assure him that everything would be all right, this seemed to be my predestined role as father.

It’s hard breaking the news to your child that the world can be a harsh place. That bad things happen to good people, that good people can be cruel sometimes, that we all sin and fall short of what God hopes for us. That we all die. We want to keep that part a secret as long as we can. Adults don’t like talking about death; who looks forward to telling their children the truth? Last week your sister asked your mother about death. We were all in the car, driving past a cemetery, when Emma said, “Mom, is that the place where ghosts live?” Your mother delicately tried to tell her that cemeteries are for people. She couldn’t conceive of such a thing. As your mother tried to explain to a five-year-old girl about the reality of life and death, my heart died inside. I remember the first time it happened, when Andrew asked me a question about death and dying as we were driving down the road. I didn’t want to tell him the truth. I wanted to make something up, or assure him that he didn’t need to think about such things. But I told him the truth, for his own good.

Why does birth make us think of death? Why do those at the end of their lives seem to delight more than the rest of us at the sight of a baby? Why do we recall with vivid detail the birthday of our children and the death day of our parents, and much of life in between is a vague memory? Why do flowers greet the arrival and mark the departure of human life? Why did we cry tears of joy and sorrow? Because life is unpredictably desirable. Despite the risk, the disappointments, the sadness, we dare to hope that life is good because God is. Which brings me to the verse, Grace, that I want to share with you tonight. It is an incredibly honest verse. In the middle of his search for wisdom, Job exclaims, “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him. Nevertheless, I will argue my ways before Him” (Job. 13:15). I’m sure that you will find many passages in God’s Word that will help you find your way. I offer this one to you knowing that, to many, Job 13:15 may not sound like a very appropriate verse for the dedication of a two-month old baby girl. Nevertheless, I hope that you will add it to your list of favorite verses of the Bible, because I think the entire story of Job (and our story, too) is boiled down to this one truth: when it is all said and done, from the beginning to the end, God is our hope.

It means something to me that a man like Job would say something like this. He had come to the point where he knew hope would die if he could not believe. Even though he says God had been cruel to him (30:21), Job would rather hope in a God who does not explain himself than give up hope altogether. What I like about Job’s conclusion to life’s dilemma is not just that he is unwilling to stop believing, but that he refuses to stop talking. The fact that he is willing to take his case to God, “arguing his ways before Him,” tells me more about God than it does about Job. Although Job reminds me of Jacob, who refuses to let go of God until he is blessed (and has a life of pain to show for it), the one I admire most in the story is God. God lets Job talk. He lets him work it out, to talk it out, to take his case to God. Job questions the justice of God and heaven is silent. Job claims that there is no benefit to living a pious life, and no judgment comes. Job dares God to kill him with the truth, and no fire falls from the sky. Why is God so patient, so tolerant, so merciful? Because He knows that Job doesn’t know the whole story. We know the whole story, we’ve read chapters 1 and 2. We know why Job suffers, although Job doesn’t understand. We know why God doesn’t answer, although Job can’t hear. We know why God is merciful, although Job can’t see it. We know because we’ve read the Bible.

Do you see, little one? This is good news. God will be merciful to us, too, because Job’s story is our story. There will come a time in your life when you find yourself questioning the purposes of God. You will experience heartaches that will leave you disappointed with God. You will tell Him what you really think, how you are really upset, how you are so confused, and He will listen. He will listen to every word because He loves you more than any of us do, because He knows the whole story, because He knows that He is our only hope.

Which is why we are here tonight. He is the reason your mother brought you before this congregation of believers. He is the reason your brother and sister listened patiently as they watched you being dedicated to God. He is the reason your father speaks to you now. We hope in a God who gives Grace.

The trivial world of superlatives

Perhaps it's stating the obvious, but in a world where those who scream the loudest, behave the most bizarre, claim the most ridiculous get noticed, superlatives have lost their purpose. Take any adjective that ends in -est and you'll typically find in the midst of social discourse the most banal, irrelevant, trivial claim. It especially shows up in sports, during a game, or when two "experts" square off in a debate.

Is it possible for a sports announcer to talk about a game (A GAME!) without using expressions like, "absolutely," or "without a doubt," or "no doubt about it" after his/her partner has made some trivial point about the world of sports? Why would we talk about such subjective things--gray areas to be sure--in such absolute terms? It used to be that absolutes were rare, reserved for the sublime, life-and-death issues that pertain to everyone. Absolutes were supposed to be universal.

But, today, they're ubiquitous--everyone uses them for everything (absolutely!). As a result, superlatives have the opposite effect on me. When I hear them, I think to myself, "They're talking about nothing."

Perhaps that should give Christians a new strategy for sharing our faith. Understatement may be the most substantive way to put the things that matter most.

Absolutely.

The Dialectic of Being a Disciple

Part of my frustration (expressed in yesterday's post) derives from a troubling trend. There seems to be an inverse proportion of theological education and anti-intellectualism in Baptist life. In other words, the more educated some of us become the less interested many of us are in the intellectual pursuit of our faith. The gap between clergy and laity widens despite our current age of "global information." Or, to put it bluntly, lay people seem satisfied with stupid answers (I realize such a statement is crass, elitist, arrogant, and perhaps downright unChristian).

Then I read today on Scot McKnight's blog a similar sentiment, as he reviews a new book by Mark Noll: http://www.patheos.com/community/jesuscreed/2011/09/07/christ-of-the-academic-road-1/

The premise? A free church tradition that celebrates "the bible is our creed" invites (even celebrates?) anti-intellectualism.

Then, I sift through these sentiments as I think about how Jesus thanked God that eggheads in his day didn't get what he was trying to do. Rather, he celebrated the fact that the simple, the "babes", the commoners were drawn to him and his kingdom work.

But, they still had to "learn" (the root idea in the word "disciple"). So, I guess I'm wondering: are these ideas mutually exclusive, learning and simplicity?

The Great Divorce

I just breezed through a recent academic catalog by one of the major publishers. Within its pages, there are descriptions of several soon-to-be-released books written by brilliant Christian men and women. As I read through the titles and the blurbs, I couldn't help but wonder, "Why so many?" Of course, new books are the result of new research, and scholars are doing more than their fair share of advancing their disciplines for the cause of Christ. Some skeptics might accuse the academy of self-promotion: the guild needs to write, publishers need to print. And, every time I work through these catalogs, my book budget grows beyond my resources. I think, "I must read this. I must have this. I must know this."

But then I think of the Church and how many Christians will never read any of these rich resources, these gold mines of knowledge, these warehouses of spiritual help. In truth, I don't meet very many non-specialists (read, "average Christians") who read much of any of this stuff that helps me so much. Oh, they'll listen to preachers. They'll watch t.v. They'll listen to radio and music. But, to read serious, deep, theological reflections on the essence of our faith? Not many takers.

But, that doesn't stop scholars from writing. Thus, the ever-widening gap between scholarship and every-day Christianity makes me wonder whether scholars are making a difference in the Church at all.

St. Paul's Cathedral?

Given what we know from Paul's letters (and even Acts--thanks for the reminder, JR!), I think the apostle would have a hard time planting a church in America. Some of you might say, "He wouldn't even try" and you would be right. Paul was a pioneer; he didn't like "building on another man's foundation," i.e., he preferred to work new territory. But even if he broke his own rule and came to America, I think Paul would be repelled by the notion of starting a church here for several reasons:

1. Paul thought weakness was a good thing.
2. Paul thought divisions were a bad thing (denominations?).
3. Paul thought the rights of individuals should be sacrificed for the church.
4. Paul didn't believe in free speech.
5. Paul thought singles were more devoted to Christ than married couples.
6. Paul thought the poor should give money to help others.
7. Paul preferred for preachers to have blue-collar jobs.

Some of these ideas probably wouldn't land him in prison (like they did in his day). Rather, I think he would be dismissed as a nut job, ignored by the masses. He wouldn't be able to start a church here; therefore there would be no churches named "St. Paul's Methodist" or "St. Paul's Episcopal." And, I think he would prefer it that way.

Would St. Paul be an evangelical?

Considering several things that Paul never mentions, would we dismiss him as "irrelevant" because he didn't preach "our gospel"?

1. He never tells his converts to evangelize or "share their faith" with outsiders.
2. He never mentions hell.
3. He never mentions the virgin birth of Jesus.
4. He never mentions heaven as a reward for believers.
5. He never tells pagans they must "repent."

Even though we got our "four spiritual laws" and the "Roman Road" from Paul, given these lacunae could we still call him an evangelical?

How many gospels are there?

Paul couldn't countenance a gospel different from the one he preached/lived. You can see his frustration in Galatians 1 as he takes on the problems that "another gospel" has created for his converts, "which is really not another" gospel--for he believed there was only one gospel, his.

I wonder what St. Paul would say today, what with all the different versions of the gospel we see and hear every day. Some of these gospels are familiar to us because of the labels we use to categorize them, e.g., the "health and wealth" gospel or the "social gospel." But, for all the labels, I think there are only three gospels in America:

1. the spiritual gospel, i.e., the essence of what Jesus came to do was save us from eternal death. The down side of this gospel is that Jesus is Lord only in heaven and not on earth.
2. the political gospel, i.e., the essence of what Jesus came to do was make the world a better place. The down side of this gospel is that it ignores the problem of hell.
3. the therapeutic gospel, i.e., the essence of what Jesus came to do was make me a better person. The down side of this gospel is that it is anthropocentric.

Can you think of "another gospel" other than these? And, considering the question we all assume has already been answered, what is the "real" gospel, in this case, the gospel St. Paul would recognize as the one he preached/lived?

A Messy Thing

When pride and impatience collide, it can get pretty ugly. For example, when I'm arguing over what I think is right and my "opponent" doesn't understand, I rush to the conclusion that they were being stubborn.

But then I sleep on it.

And the next day I realize that, just maybe, they weren't being stubborn. It could be that I was being impatient. Or, even worse, that my pride got in the way ("Why can't everyone think like me?").

When will I learn that listening requires patience and humility?

God help my arrogant soul.

Black-letter Christians

Sometime ago, it became rather fashionable to identify oneself as a "red-letter" Christian. The implication was that the words of Jesus should give us the clearest direction when it comes to being his disciple. (Often times the designation was used as a foil against those who mindlessly follow Paul's instructions, ["I am of Christ, You are of Paul,"] as if Paul and Jesus were not on the same page--which is another topic altogether.)

To be sure, Jesus said some amazingly challenging, provocative, and transformational things (the parables!). But, merely parroting what he said (we eventually discover) seems to do more harm than good. We can argue over the Sermon on the Mount (did he really teach that we shouldn't defend ourselves?), quoting the "red-letter words" back to one another like weapons, as if the war of words will settle the matter. Fighting over "what Jesus really meant" seems to be our holy occupation, especially in the blogsphere.

But, the more I think about it, the more I want to become a "black-letter" Christian, known by what I do more than what I say. Indeed, the way Mark saw it, the black letters (works of Jesus) were more important to his gospel story. And, I hope the "black letters" of my life are more important to the gospel story too.

In other words, pay no attention to these words.

*Sigh*

I've been thinking a lot about the power of nonverbal communication (see? Being a speech major has helped!)--especially the way we interpret a sigh. Nonverbal communication often trumps verbal. Yet, some nonverbal responses are difficult to make sense of. When someone sighs, what does it mean? Exasperation? Weariness? Impatience?

In her debut CD, Audrey Assad lets out this big sigh at the end of one of her songs, "Everything is Yours." Every time I hear it, my heart leaps, my throat tightens, and I nearly get all choked up. In the song, she's talking about the struggle of how we claim God is the source of all things, and yet we have this propensity to act like possessors. The song also reminds me of two poignant moments in Mark's gospel when Jesus sighs: just before he heals the deaf man (7:34) and after the Pharisees ask him for a sign (8:11).

I've always wondered why Mark included (uniquely!) these nonverbal cues and why Jesus sighed. Both instances certainly are filled with drama; the fact that Jesus sighs speaks volumes. And yet, I don't know what they mean (*sigh*). Nevertheless, the fact that Jesus sighed inspires me somehow.

What do you think? Why did Jesus sigh? What does his nonverbal response indicate? And, why did Mark include this detail in two stories that nearly butt up against each other?

Corporate Temptations/Tests

In my new book on Paul's Spirituality (published by IVP, coming out soon), I was struck by Paul's application of his theology of the cross, especially when it came to the things Paul sacrificed as a demonstration of his faith. For example, Paul sacrificed his ethnicity/nationality for the sake of following Christ. Now, at this point I don't want to get into why Paul felt it necessary to do so (I cover that in the book--it can be a rather lengthy topic to banter about). Rather, for the purposes of this blog, I'd like to ask us the simple question: have we sacrificed our ethnicity/nationality for the sake of knowing Christ, especially as it relates to being "crucified with Christ"? What American privileges have you given up in order to share in the "sufferings of Christ."

Or, to turn the question the other way around, to what extent have we given into American obsessions (what I would call a corporate temptation/test) rather than discover the loss that comes by Jesus' cross?

What happens when we fail the test/temptation?

The temptation/test of Christ by Satan in the wilderness gives us great insight into how to overcome the enemy. Countless lessons can be learned by his example. Indeed, especially according to Luke's version, Jesus (the second Adam) succeeded where the first Adam failed every test: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. Many times I have tried to learn from the Master, refusing to give in to my fleshly desires (life is more than eating!), to the delight of my eyes ("can't buy me love, no"), and to the pride of life (God plays no favorites).

But, here's the strange part: when I say "not my will but thine" and refuse to give into temptation, nothing sensational happens. I don't have a sense of accomplishment, I don't feel proud of myself. There's no euphoria, "Wow. I showed the enemy!" In fact, oftentimes these "victories" are accompanied by a sense of loss, of emptiness, indeed, as if God is not present at all--like I've missed out on something.

And yet, what happens when I fail the test, give into temptation, let God down, is an altogether different experience.

First, I beat myself up. "Come on, Rodney, you know better than this. How many times are you going to go down the same path?"

Next, I turn to God in frustration, "What's wrong with me, God?"

Sometimes I make the futile promise, "I'll never sin again!"

Then, I confess (one more time; really? One more time?) that I have sinned, that I need God's forgiveness, that I need the Spirit's power, that I'm tired of this, that I need healing.

Sometimes I remember that Jesus overcame Satan--not only in the desert, but also in the Garden. And, because he overcame the test/temptation, we have the cleansing, the forgiveness, the hope, the power, the salvation of our Lord.

Then, I sense the presence of the Lord, what I've gained through Christ (He's saved me!), that God won't give up on me, or any one of us.

In other words, I'm beginning to see more and more that God loves to "show up" in the midst of our failures. The cross of Jesus Christ proves it. So, how can Satan win, when the cross was supposed to be his final blow against humanity, the ultimate test, the last temptation of Christ?

Lead us not into testing

This always surprises Greek students. A word often translated as "temptation" can also be translated as "test." The word is peirosmos, and it shows up in some famous passages (Lord's Prayer, James' teaching about "pure joy," promise to the Philadelphia church). The difficulty, of course, is sorting out the difference. When does peirosmos mean "temptation" and when does it mean "testing"?

Imagine how strange some familiar verses would sound if we inverted the conventional translations:

"Lead us not into testing, but deliver us from the evil one." "Count it all joy when you fall into various temptations." "Let no one say, 'I am being tested by God,' for God cannot be tested by evil and he himself tests no one." "No testing has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength."

How can these things be? How could one word carry both connotations? Perhaps the answer is found in the role of Satan. He started out as a divine servant, charged with the job of testing the faithfulness of humanity. But, Adam couldn't handle the challenge; testing resulted in temptation. Maybe Satan went too far in his zeal for "proof." (After all, the "bad cop" always lies to catch the accused in their guilt.) Indeed, this is Satan's modus operandi: The father of lies tries to turn every test into a temptation--the opportunity for sin.

So, this is our lot. Embedded in every test is a temptation; and every temptation is a test. But, sorting out who's to blame (is this a test from God or a temptation from Satan?) is a difficult as translating peirosmos. Maybe it's our response that reveals the difference.

The Devil is in the details

One of the shocking discoveries for biblical studies majors is the ever-changing role of Satan in the Bible. In Job, he appears as one of God's helpers. In the royal histories, he convinces king David to levy taxes against Israel. In Zechariah he stands ready to do his work, accusing the priest of his sins before God. Then, by the time we get to the New Testament, he appears as God's opponent, ready to "tempt/test" Jesus in the desert, eventually "falling from heaven" as Jesus expands the kingdom of God on earth via the exorcising work of the twelve.

To what extent do you think our view of evil and suffering is informed by our demonology?

I think most Christians operate with a rather static view of Satan--what he is now is what he has always been. But, a more careful reading of the biblical narrative reveals that is not the case. Satan has changed over the years. At first, he did God's work (Job); now he's out to spoil God's work (Jesus). Could that dialectic help us make sense of the problem of evil?

What do you think?

Does God test us with bad things?

Too often we'll hear someone say (after going through a horrific ordeal): "Well, I guess the Lord was testing me." The more sensitive types will respond, "There's no way God would want you to go through (fill in the blank: bankruptcy, rape, divorce, disease). Doesn't James say God doesn't tempt anyone with evil?" Then the God-is-sovereign types will speak of Job and the Akedah (Gen. 22) and then say, "God doesn't cause evil. But He certainly allows it."

Of course, I'm not expecting us to solve the problem of evil and suffering, but I would like to change the way we talk about it. Shouldn't our theology of the cross help us make sense of this dilemma? Should we blame God for "allowing" evil things to happen to us? How do you talk about God's role in the testing of our faith?

Does God get Angry?

Okay, so I'll try this again. The reason Ro. 2:2 leaped out at me (and I winced) was the surprising thought, "Wait. Did Paul mean that?" In other words, in light of his comments about the wrath of God in Rom. 1 as well as his propitiatory language in Rom. 3:25, did Paul believe that God actively punishes sinners in this life (setting aside the implications for hell).

Do you believe that God actively punishes sinners in this life? And, if you do, how does that square with the death of Jesus as a "wrath averting" (one meaning of "propitiation") sacrifice?

Did Paul say this?

"We know that the judgment of God rightly falls upon those who practice such things" (Ro. 2:2).

According to the NASB, it looks like Paul said it. According to the NRSV, it looks like Paul's imaginary opponent said it.

What do you think? Does this represent Paul's position on the "righteousness/justification" of God?

Snobs

All of us are snobs about something. Coffee. Art. Theology. Cars. Philosophy. Animals. Wine. Fashion. Music. Fitness. Film.

Of course, what makes us a snob is insider information. We know more about this or that, join forces with the like-minded, and sneer at the ignorance of the masses. These exclusive clubs claim members but no membership, barriers without walls, an identity without prejudice, a cause but no agenda.

The pretense of our snobbery sanctions ridicule--yet holds in contempt any who would disagree. I see this as self-help therapy; acting like snobs makes us feel better ourselves--at least we are right about something.

I can't help but wonder if the ever-rising need to be a snob is partly due to the lack of moorings--what, for lack of a better word, is commonly called "tradition." If I know who I am (and whose I am), then I've got very little to prove.

So, here I go: I drink canned coffee. We have one picture of Thomas Kincade's "art" in our home. I listen to pop music. And, wait for it . . . (here's my cardinal sin) I don't care for most indy films.

I'm ready to take your abuse, you snobs.

Sarcasm

Many of us brainy types enjoy sarcasm. In fact, it could be said it comes easy to our tribe. Indeed, it comes so easy many of us see it as a gift; but, I'm beginning to think sarcasm is another form of laziness. Rather than work hard at dealing with an issue--trying to be clearer, more patient--we flippantly throw out a sarcastic zinger and call it a victory. It may make us feel better, but does little good.

Sarcasm comes from a Greek word, sarx. NT students immediately recognize the danger. "Sarx" is a loaded term used by Paul; literally it means "flesh," but Paul also used sarx to characterize a way of life that works against the Spirit. So, sarcasm is of the flesh. Literally, "sarcasm" is a saying that tears the flesh, bites the victim, rips at the meat of a wo/man. In Paul's day, sarcasm wouldn't be seen as something desirable, especially for a Christ believer.

Contrast our culture, where sarcasm is a virtue. Our "pop" philosophers (a.k.a. comedians) use these fleshly sayings with great skill. But, I'm beginning to think sarcasm works against my desire to "walk in the Spirit." A sarcastic word may be funny, but I wonder whether it helps at all.

This is going to be a hard habit to break. I love sarcasm--maybe too much. And, that should be a warning too.

"This I say: walk in the Spirit and you will not fulfill the desires of the flesh."

Father

Jesus knew what he was doing when he referred to God as "Father," the best description for his (and our) relationship.

This post by Mark Roberts is a touching memorial to the power of God as Father as seen through the eyes of a grateful son.

http://www.patheos.com/community/markdroberts/

In a world where male-bashing is common (and, sadly enough, sometimes deserved), I need to hear words like this. Thanks, Mark, for sharing your heart.

One Problem

At times I think much of our problem as Christians derives from one, simple issue: we take ourselves way too seriously. Perhaps that says more about me than the rest of us. But, I think I see why Christians have lost our voice in the public square. We think every idea of ours will save the world.

Could we ever preface our opinion with the phrase "I could be wrong" and really mean it? That might be a refreshing change in the midst of heated battles over ideologies.

Then again, I could be wrong.

Where have all the prophets gone?

I need a prophetic voice to wake me up from my comfortable slumber. But, where can I go to hear it?

With so many voices competing for our attention, I wonder about our ability to hear the clarion call of God despite the cacophony. There are so many people talking about so many things. The noise is deafening. And yet, despite all the chatter, I think it's getting easier to surround ourselves within the cocoon of our preferences, finding voices that are merely parroting our prejudices.

For example, it's amazing to me how quickly people line up on this or that question simply because of their political allegiances. Or, how a "theological hero" makes a claim about this or that book and all their devoted followers fall in line to bash the author.

Given the rancor that dominates social discourse, I can't help but wonder if we'll ever hear a prophet say, "Thus saith the Lord," and we'll have ears to hear it. To me, it seems like the days of John the Baptizer all over again.

Tradition

I'm finally at peace with the idea that has been troubling me for quite some time. I'm Baptist because I was raised Baptist.

I used to like to think that I'm Baptist by choice. And, I guess, it still holds true: I continue in the Baptist tradition by choice. But, then again, I don't think I could ever leave the Baptist tradition--for a variety of reasons: comfort of familiarity, job security, theological identity.

At the same time, there are many things about other Christian traditions that are attractive to me, like the exuberance of the Pentecostals, the mystery of Catholicism, the community of Anglicanism, the confidence of Calvinism, etc. In other words, I think I would be Catholic if I were raised Catholic. I would be Anglican if I were brought up by Anglican parents. I would be Presbyterian if my parents had belonged to a Presbyterian Church.

Of course, this doesn't necessarily apply to all people; there are many Christians who grew up in a nonChristian home. Which makes me wonder: if I had been born to atheists, would I be an atheist? I don't think so because the sacred heart of Christ draws me to him, regardless of my tradition.

I need Beauty

The older I get the more I'm driven outside to take in the beauty of what God has made. I simply need to sit and soak in the glory of God. Thus, to a certain extent, I can see why some people would rather worship God "in nature" than go to "church" on Sundays.

I'm reminded of something Brother Lawrence wrote in "Practicing the Presence of Christ"": something to the effect that "I find it difficult to think about God when I pray; but when I wash dishes I think about Him all the time." Indeed, I find myself thinking about God far more often when I'm outside fishing than when I'm inside a building singing.

Why do these observations ring true?

Make up your minds

Since Christians seem to support nearly every kind of political option in America, what does that say about our faith?

You would think that, since we share the same faith, live the same gospel, operate with the same symbolic universe ("kingdom of God"), then we'd all line up under one political movement. But we don't.

Does that say more about us or about politics?

What ever happened to Avarice?

Greed is hard to recognize. I'm not sure we see it anymore. I can't remember the last time I heard someone give a talk about the pitfalls of avarice. Why? Because it is the grand assumption of our culture. Wanting more is always better. Indeed, our economy couldn't survive without it. Think of what would happen if all of us decided to confess our sin of avarice and not live greedy lives.

I rarely think about my greedy problem. How about you? What do you do to keep from being greedy?

Social Justice versus Moral Purity

Why is it that those who emphasize the importance of social justice tend to downplay the necessity of moral purity? And, why is it that those who emphasize moral purity tend to absolve themselves of being involved in social justice?

In the evangelical world, Christians who preach "no sex" tend to find little use for helping the poor. And, Christians who rally support for the marginalized often set aside strict requirements for sexual behavior.

Have you seen the same tendencies? And, if so, why do these approaches to "what's important" in our faith appear to be mutually exclusive?

Romance and Christ

The more I think about it, the more I realize we've been sold a bill of goods. There's much money to be made by propping up the elusive idea of romantic love. Will I ever find "the one." When will love call my name? How will I know when I'm in love?

And, I think the Church has been just as guilty dangling this elusive idol in front of our eyes as our American culture.

Don't take this as "romance bashing." I think I can be as romantic as the next guy. But, when will we learn that the ultimate love, the perfect love, the love that eclipses all love is Christ?

And, when we will believe that the Body of Christ is where we should experience that true love.

Sorry. No questions today. Except, why can't we see this?

Who's sub?

I'm beginning to grow weary of the presumption that new "communities" (the word preferred these days rather than "church") are absent of cultural proclivities. That is, we easily spot the barriers of a certain Christian "sub-culture," decide to jettison the distinctions, then form a community that supposedly is raked clean of such weeds. In other words, despite all the efforts of the emergents (you know who they are) and the post-emergents (you may know who they are), we're still creating "sub-cultures" within our Christian faith.

Rather than deny the distinctives of our particular community, shouldn't we celebrate them? And, if so, how do we do that NOT at the expense of the "other"?

Time for a change

I really haven't figured out the purpose of blogging (even though I read somewhat regularly a few blogs).

So, I'm going to switch things up here. Rather than try to hammer out an idea every once in a while, I'd like to throw out some random observations (daily?) and see what happens.

Here goes: why does it seem to happen so often that when a romantic relationship sours the victim(s) appears to question his/her faith in God? "My girlfriend broke off the engagement, now I don't believe in God anymore." Over the years, I've seen this happen over and over again.

At the risk of sounding unsympathetic, why?

Boys and Girls

In his magnum opus--a twenty-five minute song!--Sufjan Stevens ends his musical apocalypse with a vision of the end: the quest of the impossible soul. After wrestling with the failure of love, the sinfulness of humanity, the prison of loneliness, the sickness of pain, the sorrow of misunderstanding, the last song takes on the problem of evil and suffering. In the end, the only claim Stevens can make is this: we can't do life without each other. With all of its messy, incongruous lines of us/them, evil/good, hope/despair, truth/lies, life affords a realism that defies any silly, utopian ideas of pure beauty. Everything and everyone is marred. Hints of the way things should be lie latent in the most difficult things. We talk about love, about truth, about righteousness, about meaning, about purpose, about direction, about resolution, about being whole. But, then life compels us to look in the mirror and say, "I can't lie to you. I can't tell you everything's going to be all right. You know better."

But wait. Someone's standing right beside me. She's looking in the mirror too. She's saying "it's okay. It's just the way life is. We're not meant to do this all by ourselves. We can do this together." This is no temptress. No serpent whispering in my ear. She is the second Eve, the new woman, the helpmate God intended all along. There is no feigned romanticism in her voice. She admits life is messy. She knows love goes wrong. This is no Eden. The ground yields thorns. Fig leaves must be sewn. Hide and seek will never end. She lives with an impossible soul too.

But that doesn't mean we can't dance. Hear the music? It's inviting us to find rhythm in the midst of chaos, to recover movement in spite of the static, to recover a lyrical life while death reigns, to find rest in the restless night, to believe the impossible.

Whenever I hear Sufjan's apocalyptic vision of the end of the world, I want to get up and dance.

Eve, where are you?

“I want to be well” says the Volcano

Evil. It’s hard to pin down, difficult to figure out.

We know it when we see it, especially in others. We say, “he’s the devil” or “she’s wicked.” Locating evil is the only way to comprehend the incomprehensible, take in the unimaginable. “Why would he do something like that? How could she do such a thing?” Sometimes we attribute such atrocity, such horrific behavior to madness. Crazy people do crazy things. But, that doesn’t settle the issue; we know he was “normal.” She was “fine.” But then, everything changed. He’s not the same guy; she’s not acting like she used to. We know we haven’t changed; we’re the same person. We saw things clearly. We know what’s right and what’s not. But what about them? How do we make sense of their bizarre behavior, their destructive bent, their calloused heart? Evil. We blame evil. Evil took control. Poisoned their soul. Ruined a perfectly good human being. Evil showed up and spoiled everything. Evil becomes our scapegoat.

But what happens when we discover that evil lies within us, too? That our fiery passion can erupt and destroy others? When the molten lava of our selfish inclinations explodes and reveals what was inside us all along? What do we do when evil is no longer “other” but “us”?

This seems to be Sufjan’s struggle. Accepting that evil is our fault (not “his” or “her”) makes the landscape of our souls seem so much more messy, the terrain of our social world more chaotic. Broken relationships are sickness; death is a social disease. Why does life have to be so hard, especially when all of us want to be well? The default mode, the pseudo-response to this broken down world is to say “it’s your fault.” But, the truth of the matter is: the murdering ghost lives in all of us. Islands are formed from volcanoes. “I want it all for myself” is such a lonely life.

“Oh, wretched man that I am, who will save me from this impossible soul?”

Get Real, Get Right with Me

Everyone is looking for authenticity. The presumption of our quest is we want to know what is real (isn't that telling? Nobody takes things at "face value" anymore--hey, what's really going on here?). We will not suffer from illusions. We will not tolerate lies. We need to see what is real to know what is right, what is true, what is genuine. The problem is we're all troubled by what we see. One man's trouble is another woman's misperception. One woman's reality is another man's nightmare. What is evident to one is obscure to another. What passes for humor is tragic to someone else. So, we'll argue over what is right, what is real, what is wrong, what is false--all the while assuming perceptions are universally shared.

In this social tug-of-war, the underlying assumption of all arguments is to get the "other" to see things like you do. In fact, that is the immediate reaction of those who are perpetually frustrated by "bad communication." When they don't get it, we can't help but wonder: what's wrong with them? Why don't they understand? Why are they being so stubborn? Getting your opponent to see things like you do is half the battle for truth. Deciding who is right, however, is a completely different war.

We all want to believe God is on our side. Even more than that, we all want to believe God agrees with us, thinks like us, sees the world like we do. After all, God is always on the side of right. Yet, Sufjan seems to have a sneaky suspicion that such a divine perspective fools no one but the fool who believes it. A prophet may shout: "it's time to get real and get right with the Lord." But, no one listens to him. What he says may be true--don't we all need to get real and get right? The problem is we can't stand hearing the message, knowing it comes from a mad man whose volcanic eruptions look more like evil than good.

But, are we fooling ourselves just the same? "That can't be the voice of God because I know He wouldn't sound like that." Then, we erupt with our own frustrations of a world gone mad, an injustice that knows no bounds, a love that grows cold, a faithfulness that never endures. The fires that burn within our souls may even lead to paths of destruction, where we win the war of words but still have this aching doubt: who is right? Maybe it's not as simple as "who's right and who's wrong," who wins and who loses.

In the war of truth, maybe we're our worst enemy.

Vesuvius.

I walked with regrets

There's no such thing as closure--even though we know we can't bear to live with regrets. It's the constant dialectic, the endless dilemma of having to live with our mistakes even as we find ways to blame others. This is especially true when love is spurned, when lovers part, when two who were supposed to be one flesh have been torn apart. The end of love makes everyone question beginnings: were we really in love? Did she care only for herself? Didn't he cherish me once? Who's right and who's wrong? Did we fail love or did love fail us?

Love is not singular; it only exists when it is shared. So, the lover says, "I loved because I was loved." But, should it be that way? When a lover walks away, does love perish with him/her? Doesn't true love persist even when love is spurned? Who is the one who gets to decide when love is dead? The departed or the spurned?

Looking back on it all, Sufjan Stevens struggles with the failure of love "now that he's older." Youthful exuberance must give way to mature reflection. Time is supposed to be the gift that makes love stronger. Instead, it makes things worse. The more we try to sort out the past, the harder it is to make sense of what happened, to find closure, to put away regrets. Seems like we don't get very far; the older we get the more things remain the same.

So, what do we do when we realize time doesn't heal all wounds--especially the stigmata of love? What happens next, especially when time marches on, even though the end of love feels like the end of the world?

It's time to get real and get right.

The age of confusion

How do you get a prophet to take his own advice? You can't use words; those are the weapons of his craft. Just try to shout down a prophet and all you get are more words--two persons shouting past each other. Even in that battle, the person with the biggest weapons doesn't win: hurtful words shouted through a megaphone are no more effective than whispers of apathy. Indeed, when it comes to a prophet, words are futile devices.

And yet, prophets can be so annoying, what with all their talk about the wrath of God and the end of the world. So, how do you warn a prophet? How do you say, "you've gone too far" or "you're simply a madman"--especially when all prophets (even those whose prophecies came true) are mad. Even that word is fascinating to me: "mad" used to mean "crazy" but now it means "angry." In fact, that's the picture most of us have of prophets: angry men who say crazy words. It is madness that drives some men insane.

But, what is sanity? One man's madness is another man's passion. In fact, even prophets speak of love and faithfulness and truth. Sometimes we hear sane people talk about love, but its quite apparent even they don't know what they're talking about: to them love is twisted, selfish, destructive, myopic, painful, vain. Love under the guise of encomium leaves us confused and dazed, wondering where truth can be found.

This is what I hear in Sufjan Steven's apocalyptic world of Adz. The dualism of the age is not between love and hate, faithfulness and betrayal, truth and lies, life and death. All of these things overlap in the age of Adz. Instead, the constant struggle, the eternal dialectic, is between clarity and confusion. We're all looking for moments of clarity, even from a madman. And, those who say "they understand" often admit they're troubled and confused. So, in a world where perspective is reality, does anyone have eyes to see and ears to hear?

It depends upon not what you say but where you walk.

There's too much riding on love

In a simplified version of biblical apocalypticism, there is a thoroughgoing dualism--a struggle, a conflict, a fight--between two forces. Typically, it is the final battle between good and evil, between God and Satan, between order and chaos. Apocalyptic prophets see the battle in vivid panoramic terms, most often visualized as war. In this cosmic fight, the world is a mess because evil seems to run amok. The determinism of a world filled with death and injustice robs humanity of the dignity of hope. Nothing ever seems to change. But, the seer knows it won't always be this way. The warning goes forth (even though no one seems to want to hear it): God is going to invade the cosmos, riding in like a man on a white horse--guns blazing. Then evil will finally be put down. The wicked will get their just desserts. It will take a lot of death to pull it off, a lot of violent conflict, a lot of chaotic warfare to bring order. But, this is the way it must be: it must get worse before it gets better. In the meantime, in the face of such pessimistic determinism, the weapon of the righteous is faithfulness. The prophet's message is: hold on, grit your apocalyptic teeth, and warn the world with words.

In the face of this apocalypticism, the prophet Sufjan challenges the idea of faithfulness as the only recourse of the righteous. Instead, he wants to believe in the power of love. Indeed, the open-endedness of love is our only chance of overcoming such a mechanical view of the world. Rather than give in to the machinery--the pretense of pessimism--the Seer claims that love conquers all. But, there is a problem. What is true love? Mere words will never suffice. Intimate knowledge is an illusion. We all are screwed up people. How can we love without truth, without a prophet to tell us what is true? So, A new dualism of perpetual struggle is born: the final conflict is not between good and evil, love and hatred, order and chaos.

It is the age of Adz.

Sufjan Eschatology

I am amazed by Sufjan Steven's latest, "The Age of Adz." I'm still taking in all of the complexities and intricacies of this incredibly rich work. As a matter of fact, I think I'm going to part from my usual ways on this blog and offer a theological response to this cd.

I'll start with the title. Given the "end times" motif of the record, I'm pretty sure "Adz" means "in the year of our Lord Z." A.D., of course, comes from the Latin phrase, "anno domini," which means, "in the year of our Lord." Since we don't know the last number (they are infinite, after all), I think Stevens used the last letter of our alphabet to signal the last day. Where infinity seems to run forever, the end is still in sight: thus, we "rot" and experience "eternal living" (two themes Stevens mashes together in the title track). Like most of his work, Stevens loves to explore the paradox of our faith.

Gloria and Victoria.

More theological ramblings (mine and his?) to come.

For Buck

I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, and I don’t know why.

You died last May. It still hurts to think about it. When you were on your death bed—just a few days before you died—I called you and told you that you were one of the best Christians I’ve ever known; I wanted to say more. But, you were tired, and I could tell, in your usual humble way, you didn’t want to hear it. You simply said, “That’s very nice,” and then asked me how I was doing. I said I was fine and that I had been thinking a lot about you, that many of your friends had been praying for you—that God would heal you from the cancer that eventually took your life. You told me how much your friends had helped you in your last days, how your sweet wife, Pam, was there for you, that you appreciated every thing. You didn’t know it, but I was weeping uncontrollably. I said, “You’re almost there.” Then you said, “Yes. But I still have a ways to go.”

When you died I felt lonely. That’s because I always thought of you as the one Christian I could count on to be all about the Kingdom. That was you—the man who was all about the Kingdom. Of course, many knew you as a fine surgeon—the guy who single-handedly brought “laproscopy” (did I spell it right? You’d probably laugh that I asked) to Mongolia. You and Pam were always on one of your mission trips—to Africa, to Mongolia. You both loved the Mongolian people, and they loved you, too. To others, you were the guy who started the “In His Steps” ministry on the poor side of town (but you wouldn’t like it that I called it that). But that’s what it was—these were people who had little. You taught the Bible and shared your life with them. To them you weren’t “Dr. Rusher.” They called you “Buck” and “my Bible study teacher.” They loved you, too.

I miss you, Buck. I know I’m not the only one. Your lovely wife, daughter and son, son-in-law and daughter-in-law—and especially your grandchildren—they miss you more. I know once I moved to Bolivar we didn’t have much time to talk. You invited me several times to come down and duck hunt with you. I wish now I would have come every time you offered. I’ll miss your emails, too. Whenever you’d ask questions about the Bible, it reminded of the times we’d talk about our faith—your insatiable desire to know the Word of God was so refreshing. Many Christians don’t know the Bible; when I try to inspire them to read it more, their eyes glaze over, like I’m boring them to tears. But you couldn’t get enough. I loved that about you.

There’s so much more I want to say. When I think about you now—enjoying the things we wondered about—I feel better. But, I still miss you. I guess I’m still grieving. I just had to tell you these things.

I feel like I should say,”Merry Christmas!” But, that doesn’t sound right. So, instead I’ll say, “Glory to God in the Highest!” (I think you’d like that better anyway.)

A Christmas Story

The Word became flesh and lived among us. Words embodied. Ideas becoming reality. Poetry in motion. Truth seen. Mystery felt. Verbal and nonverbal. Thought and action. Axis and praxis. A metaphor that tastes good.

Unto you a child is born. Predictions fulfilled. God becoming a baby. Heaven on earth. Singing stars. Wise guys. Common folk. Sorrow and joy. Good news and bad news. Dreams and visions. A story that never gets old.

Jesus is the reason for the season. Economies stimulated. Christians becoming defensive. Living in America. Worn out cliches. Trivial pursuits. Carols and cars. Glitter and gold. Food and drink. A holiday that takes more than it gives.

My secret heresy

I'm color blind. I don't think about it much except during this time of year in the Ozarks. Many times I hear, "aren't the colors wonderful this time of year." I know what they mean; they're talking about the reds and oranges and yellows (and variations of the same?) that color the fall foliage. Most of the time I simply say, "yes. It's beautiful." But what I really mean is: "I don't agree with you because I don't see the world like you do."

I dread what usually happens when others find out I'm color blind. It's the endless, "what color is this? . . . and this? . . . and this?" Sometimes they laugh, amused by my answers. Others (the more sensitive types) empathize, or speculate, "I wonder what it would be like to see the world through your eyes." My children once mused, "Maybe Dad is the only one to see colors as they really are, and we're the ones who are confused . . . . Nah!"

I used to make comments about the colors of the world. (For example, when our folks visited us in the U.K. years ago, we took them to Scotland during winter. I made the comment, "Aren't the green hills beautiful?" Later, my family confessed they said to each other [under their breath], "poor guy. He doesn't see that everything's dead and brown."

I can't tell the difference between blue and purple, green and brown, pink and grey, red and brown. I'm told my "rods" are misproportioned--we see color through the triangularization of the RGB color scheme--each rod (Red, Green, and Blue) must be equal length to see color "correctly"). Some of my "rods" are shorter than others. So my color vision is imperfect, slightly eschewed, off color--if you will.

I've recently wondered whether my color "world view" has colored my theological "world view." That is to say, I seem to have the same feelings when I hear others speak rather confidently about the inherent beauty of certain theological ideas. Sometimes I say, "Yes. It is wonderful." But most of the time I feel like saying, "I don't agree because I don't see the world like you do."

I'm rediscovering a simple idea: there are many things about God that I don't want to believe about Him; but I do anyway. Like, I don't want to believe in a God who said, "Kill the Amalekites." But, I do. I don't want to believe in a God who didn't spare His own Son from the horrendous evil of crucifixion. But, I do. I don't want to believe in a God who shows mercy to my enemies. But, I do. I don't want to believe in a God who made imperfect "rods" so as not to see the "natural" beauty of what has been made. But, I do. I don't want to believe in a God who gives sight to some and not others. But, I do.

Perhaps it's because I can't see things "as they really are." But, I do.

Why I am not a cynic

“All the world’s a stage, and we are merely the actors.” The genius of Shakespeare is that he knew there was more to life than meets the eye. His plays about life would tell a story even better than life, enticing his audience to live vicariously through the actors. He used the invisible wall of the theater as a window through which an audience could play God for a day. To see everything that happens, hearing all private conversations, knowing all intimate thoughts, to look upon a world of movement, watching a plot unfold toward its inevitable conclusion, essentially, to be omniscient was to any audience a divine ability reserved only for deity. That invisible wall, however, was more than a window gaining access to a world full of actors. Shakespeare knew the wall was a mirror, making the audience take in the full reflection of their own image—the undeniable weakness of humanity, the perpetual problem of the human condition, the complicated web of human relationships, lies masked by flattery, deception concealed by mock friendships, ulterior motives, feigned sincerity. In an unforgettable scene from Hamlet, the prince hopes to prove his theory that his uncle murdered his father in order to get the crown as well as the queen. He hires a theatrical troop to perform his hastily written play that frames the new king. Before the play is performed for the benefit of Hamlet’s mother and her new husband, the prince gives last minute advice to the actors:

“Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so o’erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it makes the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theater of others.”

Shakespeare revealed to all—with eyes to see and ears to hear—that the world really is a great stage of players.

“What’s going on here?” Alarming revelations wake us up to the reality that what you see is not necessarily what you get. Most of us move to the steady drum of daily routines, comfortable habits, weekly schedules that lull us to sleep. We carry on without suspicions, mostly taking things as they come. Then, something terrible happens. A crime has been committed. A good person has done a bad thing. Embarrassing details reveal the difference between a man and his reputation. Shocked and disappointed, the majority opinion is repeated over and over again, “I never would have suspected him of doing something like that,” trying to come to terms with the unacceptable. Conspiratorialists rush in with their complicated theories of sinister forces and the underworld. Alarmists jump to the conclusion of widespread abuse. The intelligentsia debate whither and whence. The naïve refuse to believe that life can really be that bad. The cynics laugh from a distance, chuckling to themselves, “we told you so.”

So, in the play called life, what part are we playing? Well, who likes the choices? The sleepy masses, the rabid conspirator, the chicken little prophet, the pretentious pundit, the naïve fool, the self-righteous cynic—these modern-day Shakespearean parts are not very appealing. We may all, at one time or another, belong to the sleepy masses—but who wants to admit it? Conspiracies reveal more about the theorist than the real world. Prophets of doom are predictable. Pundits speak as if everyone values their opinions (but who’s listening?). Everyone knows that ignoring the problem doesn’t make it go away. The only part that seems to have any actors competing for the same role these days is the one played by the cynic. To rise above the rest, never taken in by surprise, untouched by tragic twists in the plot of life, never to be fooled by duplicity—to play the cynic—this seems to be the favorite role of many today. And, I can see why, since it is easier to be against something than for something else.

The world is filled with injustice, the problem of evil and suffering persists, and no one seems to have any answers. But, does it mean that we have to accept things as they are? Aren’t we supposed to make the world a better place? We know we must live with tragedy, but do we have to put up with evil run amok? Who will save us from this hour? Enter stage right: the problem solvers of our world—politicians, scientists, educators, preachers. Politicians appeal to the noble desire of “everyman” for the public good to encourage citizens to service the needs of the community. Scientists harness the power of nature using technological advances in their germ warfare against sickness, disease, and death. Educators seek to silence prejudice, bigotry, hatred, and intolerance fueled by ignorance by reminding all of us of what we know. Preachers persist in announcing “good news” from their pulpits, with sermons about the love of God, the faith of believers, and hope for the world.

Enter stage left: the cynic. With his diatribe, the cynic mocks humanity’s futile attempt to change the world. He delights in reminding us that heroes rarely live up to the expectations of their admirers. Crusaders eventually reveal selfish motives in their campaign for change. Power always corrupts. Notoriety drives discovery. Knowledge breeds arrogance. There is no cure for the common cold much less for what ails the world. Viruses mutate, anti-bodies become impotent. Death rules over life. There will always be wars and rumors of wars. History rarely teaches us anything. Personal ambition always takes precedence over the greatest good. And, in a world that cannot be saved, faith looks more like hype, and hope is the great pretender. The cynic won’t let anyone be fooled by the pretense of those who say they have the answer. No man is sovereign. No woman controls her own destiny. There is no Savior. This may all sound pretty dark, but the cynic claims that he’s the only honest person who has the courage to tell the truth, to unmask the hypocrisy of the human heart. It’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.

There’s a famous story about Diogenes, the cynic philosopher of the 4th century B.C., and his brief encounter with Alexander the Great that sounds more like the modern tale of the urban male. It is said that Alexander once approached Diogenes, who was basking in the rays of the sun, with the offer, “Ask any favor you wish.” Diogenes simply replied, “Get out of my sunlight.” For the most part, we act the same way. The people we used to look up to are now only standing in our way. We don’t believe anymore in the virtue of public service. Parents don’t want their kids to grow up to be president. The Church has lost touch with the real world. Preachers are passed off as a bad parody of themselves. Institutions of higher learning have turned into big business, where students are treated like consumers and educators are dismissed as bureaucrats of knowledge. Like Diogenes, we prefer to heckle those who stand over us, those who think they have real answers for real problems. We’ve been disappointed too many times to be taken in by these professional hucksters. Too many leaders have fallen, too many scandals have rocked our world, too many gullible people have fallen prey to the manipulation of the masses. Cynical of life, it’s our job to bring them back to reality; never believe the hype; always look for the loop hole; challenge the status quo; never play follow the leader; and above all else, keep our hands clean when “the play” goes wrong. Then, when the world falls apart again, we can say we weren’t surprised, we can say we are not to blame, we can shout from the balcony the words we long to say, “we told you so.”

But, we are Christians; we believe God came down from the balcony and became an actor, part of the human drama. Never missing a cue, delivering the role of a Savior to perfection, God-in-human-flesh showed us all how we are to live, what we are supposed to do. He knew the purpose of the play, the meaning of life. He revealed to us the most excellent way. His heart was pure; His aim was true. He set the standard. Yet, Jesus was everyman. He understands how hard it is down here. He was fully acquainted with our grief. He bore our sorrows. He was pierced through for our transgressions. He corrected our mistakes. “The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, and by His scourging we are healed.” We believe God made a difference—that we are not left to ourselves to figure things out. Shouts from the balcony won’t do. We needed to see God.

That’s why I am not a cynic. I believe the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. I believe that God so loved the world that He sent His only Son to die for our sins. The cross proves that God doesn’t turn His back on injustice. The cross proves that He understands what hatred feels like. The cross proves that He won’t let evil run amok. The cross proves that God loves. And, he calls every single one of us—those who have ears to hear and eyes to see—to carry that cross, all the way to the end of the play.

Subverting the Cynics
(or, why I didn't hear about faithfulness, salvation,
and the Spirit)

I heard most of what John Caputo and Peter Rollins had to say last Friday evening during an event called "Subverting the Norm," held on the campus of Drury University. Caputo is a philosopher from Syracuse University who wrote (among other things) "What Would Jesus Deconstruct?," and Rollins is an "emergent" leader from Northern Ireland who wrote (among other things) "The Orthodox Heretic." Several speakers were featured during the weekend gabfest, where those disenchanted with traditional forms of Christianity gathered to find encouragement.

Caputo used Hegel's dialectical determinism to make sense of the inexplicable essence of our faith (what Caputo called "the event"), where true hope is found in hopelessness, true forgiveness is only offered when the offense is unforgivable, and faith is grounded in doubt. The binary context of Caputo's symbolic world almost compelled me to offer my profound appreciation for his talk by saying, "I truly understand what you're saying because I misunderstand this event"). But, that would be disingenuous because I think I understand "the event" called "Subverting the Norm."

It dawned on me as I began to take in Rollins' remarks (who spoke after Caputo). There, in large letters projected on the flat screen monitor, was the theme for the gathering, "Subverting the Norm." I thought, "That would be an apt description of the cynics of the first-century, their raison d'etre, the banner for their movement. In fact, if they were to have had a meeting [but they wouldn't--they're cynics after all!] they probably would have given it the same title." Then, Rollins began to sermonize about the failure of traditional Christianity, and the reason his community of faith (called "Eikon") in N. Ireland explored ways of reclaiming Christian faith for the wounded, the doubters, the rebels, the disenfranchised, the hopeless. (By the way, several times--in the midst of Caputo's and Rollins' talk--I almost shouted, "Amen.")

Their's is an impossible task (something both Caputo and Rollins recognize). They're fighting a war on two fronts, taking on two ideological worlds that are worlds apart: the strident atheists and the dogmatic theists. To the power-hungry atheists, ready to disabuse all of us poor souls of our silly notions of God and Spirit, these post-post modern prophets declare hope. And, to the obscurantist Christians, convinced that complexities have no place in genuine faith, these neo-dogmaticians prescribe angst. In other words, sometimes Caputo and Rollins sounded like champions of the disenchanted. And, at other times, they sounded like priests of a new institution.

It's easier to be against something than for something. Reacting against what's wrong (the cynic critic) almost comes naturally to those of us who think we have something to say. And yet, trying to be for something without becoming the very thing you despise (agenda!) is the natural consequence of the human condition. I saw that when Rollins showed pictures of his community back home--the trademarked "Eikon," worship as theatre, the outsiders becoming insiders (and vice versa--"down with those pesky fundamentalists!"). And, I heard it in Caputo's voice, when he spelled out what "the event" must look like: "if it doesn't address issues of justice and inclusion, it's not genuine." Hope and judgment--these ideas are hard to hold onto when you're not trying to sound like something you are.

In other words, they were talking about "faithfulness" and the need for "salvation" and the work of the "Spirit." But, seemed afraid to say so.

A Misunderstood Man

Now that I've finished working through Paul's Spirituality (the MS is in the editor's hands now), I've come to a rather predictable (yet at the same time) startling conclusion: next to Jesus, Paul is one of the most misunderstood persons in Christian history.

I think he gets a bad rap for many things, accused of being a misogynist, intransigent theologian, impulsive missionary, pretentious apostle, incoherent thinker, and aimless rebel. (Those who think so have missed the essence of the man.)

Indeed, the more I think about him, the more I've come to the conclusion that Paul may have been the best example of what it means to follow Jesus than anyone else. And, the irony is, of course, that he never followed the historical Jesus. Amazing man. I wish we had someone today who took their faith as seriously as our St. Paul. I would love to see what that looks like.

Here's one Gentile who wants to say: "Thanks, Paul, for showing us what a life compelled by the love of Christ should look like--even today. I'm glad you're our apostle. I'll be standing behind you, with millions of your children in Christ, the day you present us to our Lord (1 Thess. 2:19)."

Prayer is defiance (one last tidbit from my work on Paul's Spirituality)

Because Paul wore Christ’s resurrection like body armor, the apostle was expecting a fight. He wasn’t surprised when he encountered resistance to the gospel (3:10-12). In fact, the armor of God explains why Paul kept returning to the same places where he was nearly killed. When you know you’re going to be raised from the dead on the last day, then no one or nothing can stop the proclamation of the gospel. To march in the army of Christ’s resurrection is an act of war against the devil. This is why Paul kept asking his converts to pray for him and for one another while he was in prison (Eph 6:18-20; Phil 1:3-11; 4:6; Col 4:2-4). It wasn’t simply a matter of asking for divine protection in the face of suffering and death. Paul knew Satan wouldn’t give up the battle. If the devil couldn’t threaten Christ believers with fear of suffering and death, then he would use other “schemes” to try to subvert the work of Christ. If he couldn’t win the fight using a frontal assault (worry, fear, suffering, and death cannot penetrate the armor of Christ), then he would get Christ believers to fight one another, stabbing each other in the back. That’s when the devil shows up in Paul’s letters. Paul accused Satan of trying to sneak into the churches as an “angel of light” and create dissension (2 Cor 11:13-15). Paul warned the Corinthians that Satan would exploit the unforgiving spirit of the house churches when a repentant member was excommunicated (2 Cor 2:5-11). Paul told the Ephesians not to “make room for the devil” by lying, cheating, and talking bad about one another (Eph 4:25-29). Embittered and angry, the Ephesians were grieving the Holy Spirit because they weren’t being “kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another as God in Christ has forgiven you” (vv. 30-32).

This is why Paul kept reminding his converts to pray; Christ believers overcome Satan through prayer (1 Cor 7:5; 2 Thess 3:1-3). Prayer is confidence, an act of defiance against evil and suffering in a fallen world (2 Thess 1:5-12; Eph 3:8-21). Prayer is a memorial, an act of remembering what God has done (1 Thess 1:2-3; Phil 1:3-5). Prayer is perseverance, an act of thanksgiving knowing God will always be on our side (Eph 6:18-20; Col 4:2-4). When we pray for one another, we’re claiming God’s power is supreme. When we pray for one another, we remember our battle is not against “flesh and blood,” but against the powers of darkness. When we pray, we remind each other that we’re living between the “already” and “not yet” of Christ’s resurrection. When we pray, we contend for what is right. When we pray, we are telling the world we have nothing to fear. When we pray, we prove that we’re still fighting. When we pray, we find peace with God because He “is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine” (Eph 3:20). When we pray, we are taking on the powers. The fact that we are able to fight proves that we have already won the battle.

Jesus as a middle-aged man?

I wonder what Jesus would have been like as a man in his 40s? Of course, most men didn't even make it to the age of 30 in his day (disease and war insured a high mortality rate--70 was the far end of living). But, I can't help but wonder if Jesus would have calmed down a bit, been a little less driven, a little more withdrawn if he had lived another 10 to 20 years. Would he have ever gotten to the point where he said, "Ah, the heck with it," and decided to go home and live out his years in peace and quiet?

Here's a heads-up for all of you 20-somethings (then again, I'm sure you've already noticed): the older you get, the less your zeal for "making a difference" in the world. As a matter of fact, the older I get, the more I don't care about the world, with all of its cultural trappings. I think I'm turning into an old codger. There's so much "buzz" in our culture I don't hear anymore. All the hype that goes along with the superficiality of what is "hot" has almost become annoying to me. I've been thinking lately about all the programs I don't watch, all of the cultural memes that are irrelevant to my life (it especially shows up during commercials--the idiocy is breathtaking). It's caused me to doubt whether I am a true American, thoroughly soaked in the American way of life: can you be a true American and never have watched a WWF match (or any other pay-per-view sports event), or been to a NASCAR race, or bought anything from the shopping channels, or watched a single reality-tv show all the way through?

There are so many things that are evidently very popular that I've never done. I think I'm turning into a hermit, an old man who prefers to sit on his front porch, stare at the beauty of simple things--grass, cows, trees, birds--and proudly come to the conclusion that the world has passed me by.

WWJD?

The State Religion of America (excerpt from book on Paul's Spirituality)

A few years ago our youngest daughter, Grace, was trying to explain how she negotiated the daily drama of her social world at middle school. One student was giving his female classmates fits, but Grace was able to dismiss the boy’s antics; she claimed he never got to her because she was able to size him up. “He’s a telepathic liar,” she said confidently. Grinning from ear to ear, Grace’s older brother and sister almost said simultaneously, “You mean, ‘pathological liar.’” But before Grace could agree, I wanted to enjoy her unintentional pun: “You know, I think she’s right. Maybe he is a telepathic liar. He may look like he’s telling the truth. But, Grace knows different: she’s reading his mind.” Then, turning to my thirteen-year-old daughter I said, “Grace. I hope you’re able to keep that ability. It will come in handy when you get older and have to deal with boys on a regular basis,” at which point our son (who majored in philosophy) and our oldest daughter (who majored in biology) playfully began to debate the metaphysical question, “what is real?”, by correlating gender issues and the differences between pathology and telepathy. Comments like, “men are pigs” and “women are trappers,” were bantered about as each combatant relied upon science and reason to score points in the battle of the sexes.

Nature (“men are pigs”) versus nurture (“women are trappers”) is the common dialectic by which we make sense of human behavior. We rely upon science to tell us why certain persons do certain things. Social scientists argue that context is key; individuals are conditioned to respond in certain ways due to the sum of their past experiences. Biological scientists maintain that we’re all hard-wired to behave a particular way; our genetic makeup predetermines how we will respond to different situations. In either case, the presumption of our quest—explaining why “men are pigs” or why “women are trappers”—is that science holds all the answers. In fact, it may be safe to say that science is the state religion in the west. Geneticists are prophets who predict our future; physicians are priests who serve in the temple of health. When they are unable to answer our questions, “why did this happen?” or “what is the prognosis?” or “what is the remedy?”, we fall into despair, troubled by the uncertainty of life. We want—we crave—certainty. So, a new “Calvinism” has been developed to make us feel better about our lot. Its theology is biology, where faith is the gift of reason and the doctrine of predestination is sorted out in the lab. We believe because test results are determinative.

What I find most puzzling is how this new “religion” found fertile soil in the land of American individualism.

One, simple observation

I am amazed how quickly Christians sacrifice the gospel on the altar of their particular political ideology(ies). And, to make matters worse, we don't even realize when we do it.

God help us.

Resurrection Faith

The resurrection of Christ is an unstoppable work of God in the life of every believer. In spite of life’s disappointments—regardless of how things appear—Paul was convinced that God would finish what He started: “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ” (Phil. 1:6). For just as believers experience the death of Christ and are buried with him through baptism, we are also destined to share in his resurrection. But, it isn’t simply a matter of our body—suffering from the effects of sin—being restored, reclaimed, remade after death. As far as Paul was concerned, God had already begun to raise the dead when any person turns to Christ in faith. It was God’s design from the beginning not only to raise a worn-out body from the dead, but also to raise a broken heart from the dead, to raise a contrite spirit from the dead, to raise a corrupt mind from the dead, to raise a troubled soul from the dead. When it comes to Christ’s resurrection, nothing is left behind. When old things pass away, everything becomes new. On the last day, the resurrection will be obvious. Until then, we simply have to wait for time to catch up with the reality of what God has already done through Christ in us. Indeed, if the resurrection of Christ teaches us anything it’s this: death’s days are numbered—it’s only a matter of time till everyone sees the resurrection reign of Christ.