Another sort of different

It’s amazing what you can find randomly wandering around the Internet. Usually, you don’t (or at least I don’t), but there are times when Web panning turns up a nugget. I was surfing aimlessly yesterday for a couple minutes while my brain tried to track something down, and I landed at Doug Hagler’s blog, only to find myself in the blogroll. I would not have expected that. Doug’s good people from what I can tell—we’ve never met personally, I only know him from around the blogosphere, and primarily from his comments on Jim Berkley’s blog—but he and I don’t agree on a whole lot. (I would have said we don’t agree on much of anything, but from his blog, it’s evident we agree on Tolkien, anyway.) Doug’s one of those folks in the More Light/Covenant Network stream of the PC(USA), and I’m . . . slightly not. Still (especially these days), one is always grateful for those with whom one can disagree intelligently and civilly, because there can be real value to those conversations; and I’d certainly put Doug in that category. (Besides, you have to like someone who can write, “You’re only allowed to take me as seriously as I take myself. That should serve to restrain both of us.”) As such, I’m happy to return the favor and add him to the blogroll. I’d especially recommend his post on eucatastrophe, which is perhaps my favorite of Tolkien’s concepts. (This all ties in with my earlier post on Alison Milbank’s book.)

I should also note, I’m grateful to Doug for tipping me off to a development I’d missed during the whole packing/moving process: Peter Jackson has settled his legal squabble with New Line Cinema, and he and Fran Walsh are back on board to do The Hobbit (and also a sequel; my wife was wondering if they’re planning to make a movie of the journey back home, which Tolkien completely glossed over). There are legitimate criticisms to offer of the work Jackson, Walsh and Philippa Boyens did with LOTR, but that said, I can’t come up with anyone who would have done a better job. Jackson et al. doing The Hobbit is clearly the best-case scenario, and I’m glad to see it.

And now for something completely different

29 “And these are unclean to you among the swarming things that swarm on the ground: the mole rat, the mouse, the great lizard of any kind, 30 the gecko, the monitor lizard, the lizard, the sand lizard, and the chameleon. 31 These are unclean to you among all that swarm. Whoever touches them when they are dead shall be unclean until the evening. 32 And anything on which any of them falls when they are dead shall be unclean, whether it is an article of wood or a garment or a skin or a sack, any article that is used for any purpose. It must be put into water, and it shall be unclean until the evening; then it shall be clean. 33 And if any of them falls into any earthenware vessel, all that is in it shall be unclean, and you shall break it. 34 Any food in it that could be eaten, on which water comes, shall be unclean. And all drink that could be drunk from every such vessel shall be unclean. 35 And everything on which any part of their carcass falls shall be unclean. Whether oven or stove, it shall be broken in pieces. They are unclean and shall remain unclean for you. 36 Nevertheless, a spring or a cistern holding water shall be clean, but whoever touches a carcass in them shall be unclean. 37 And if any part of their carcass falls upon any seed grain that is to be sown, it is clean, 38 but if water is put on the seed and any part of their carcass falls on it, it is unclean to you.”

—Leviticus 11:29-38, ESV

Some number of years ago, my friend Hap wrote a poem dealing, in part, with what happens when a dead gecko falls into your pot. She was good enough to send me a copy; unfortunately, thanks to the magic of cross-country moves, I don’t know where my copy is. (Update: problem solved. Too perfect. 🙂 Thanks, Hap. To the rest of you—go and read.)Anyway, it turns out there’s good reason the Torah is only worried about dead geckos falling into your pot; apparently, though I didn’t know this, gecko feet are among the wonders of nature, maybe up there with the fact that bumblebees can fly. Certainly they were as mysterious as the flight of the bumblebee. I love the picture Heather McDougal paints:

Traveling in Southeast Asia, geckos on the ceiling were a common occurrence. They would stake out territory, chasing each other away with vehemently waving tails, as if they did not notice they were in the middle of a rough, lumpy, peeling ceiling, hanging upside-down. I would lay in my bed and watch them fight, wondering why one of them did not fall on my face. As it turns out, no one else knew either until relatively recently.

The answer to the puzzle is a fascinating one (or at least, I think it is). Go read the post and see if you agree. Personally, it makes me marvel at the incredible imagination of God.

God’s own fools

18 For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 19 For it is written,

“I will destroy the wisdom of the wise,and the discernment of the discerning I
will thwart.”

20 Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21 For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe. 22 For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, 23 but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, 24 but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 25 For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.

26 For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. 27 But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; 28 God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, 29 so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. 30 And because of him you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption, 31 so that, as it is written, “Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.”

—1 Corinthians 1:18-31, ESV

God’s foolishness begins with a crucified Messiah, but it doesn’t end there. If God’s use of the cross is foolish on our terms, is it any less foolish that he chooses to use us? Put it another way—if you were God and wanted to fix the world, would you start with us? I don’t know about you, but I think I’d be inclined to focus on the important people, the ones who control the world’s governments, media, money, etc.

Once again, though, God doesn’t work that way. He certainly wants to save the rich and powerful just as much as anyone else, but he doesn’t focus on them; rather, he chooses the weak, the powerless, the insignificant, the foolish—he chooses ordinary people, and many of the weakest and most vulnerable among us—in order to show up those who think they are powerful and important and don’t need him. God does this because we matter to him as much as those in power do, but he also chooses us to make it clear that there is no one who has the right to boast in themselves; there is no one who does not need him, and no one who can stand against him. There is no one he cannot raise up, and no one he cannot bring down.

We are called as Christians to be fools in the world’s eyes; our salvation is foolishness to the world, and the idea that God would choose to use us is foolishness, so if we are to follow God we must choose his foolishness over the world’s wisdom. We’re called to follow Jesus Christ, God’s own fool, and to live in this world as he did. He turns to us as he did to Peter and says, “Come, follow me”; if we protest, “Lord, they think you’re a fool,” he just says, “Come be a fool with me.”

But what does that mean? Clearly, we aren’t called to random acts of foolishness, after all; we’re called to be fools like Jesus. Just as he valued doing God’s will over all the things the world thinks important—comfort, success, material well-being, and the like—so should we. More than that, just as he valued doing God’s will more highly than his own life, accepting suffering and death in his Father’s service, so should we. In the world’s eyes, this is foolish; but to us who are being saved, it is the power and the wisdom of God.

“He is no fool who would choose to give the things he cannot keep
to buy what he can never lose.”
—Jim Elliott

God’s own fool, part II

(I was originally intending just one more post on this, but now I think it will work better as two separate posts.)The following is an actual ad placed in an Irish newspaper some years ago: “1985 Blue Volkswagen Golf. Only 15 km; only 1 driver. Only first gear and reverse used. Never driven hard. Original tires; original brakes. Original fuel and oil. Owner wishing to sell due to employment lay-off.” Sound a little odd? Take a look at the picture.

The conventional wisdom is, you need a car . . . Sometimes, though, following the conventional wisdom is a pretty foolish thing to do. Conversely, sometimes those the conventional wisdom calls foolish aren’t fools at all. Sometimes they’re actually three steps ahead of the rest of us. Take the example of Fred Smith, the founder of Federal Express and the man who created the overnight delivery which we now take for granted. He first proposed this in a paper when he was a student at Yale University; the professor gave him a C, telling Smith that his idea was interesting but couldn’t be done. Smith went ahead and did it anyway, even though a Ph.D. had told him he was foolish. We know who was right.The thing is, the world just isn’t as wise as it thinks it is, and so sometimes you have to be willing to be a fool in order to get anywhere. Which might sound like a truism, but it’s an important thing to remember. Even in the church, too often we get caught up in the conventional wisdom about life, and when that happens we start to judge the gospel by the standards of the world’s wisdom, or to try to make it fit with what we consider wise. The problem with that is that it’s a demand that God play by our rules, and he’s just not going to honor that; he’s not going to conform the truth to our idea of wisdom. The gospel is not wisdom by any human standard—it is a contradiction to human wisdom.God’s foolishness begins with a crucified Messiah. Many of us have gotten used to this, as Easter goes by every year, but if you really stop to think about it, it’s crazy. As the great New Testament scholar Gordon Fee put it, “No mere human, in his or her right mind or otherwise, would ever have dreamed up God’s scheme for redemption—through a crucified Messiah. It is too preposterous, too humiliating, for a God.” Put another way, no self-respecting God would put himself through something like that—becoming human, sharing all the unpleasant and messy parts of life, and then submitting to be tortured to death—and for what? For us? Surely that’s beneath God’s dignity, isn’t it? Yes, it is; no self-respecting God would do a thing like that—which tells us something very important about God: he will never let his dignity get in the way of his love for us.If the whole idea of a crucified Messiah is God’s foolishness, then surely Jesus was God’s designated fool; and for all that we tend to think of him as a great wise man and a great teacher, he made a lot of those around him think he was a fool, or worse. It wasn’t long into his ministry before Jesus had convinced his family that he was insane, and the priests that he was possessed by Satan himself. After all, he just didn’t act like a normal person, and his teaching challenged almost everything the religious leaders taught, in one way or another. He upset people’s expectations, and sometimes their furniture; and when he started to explain things to his disciples, it only upset them, too.Jesus just wasn’t what anyone was looking for. The Jews knew what Messiah would look like; he would come with signs of God’s power and lead his people out of their captivity, just as Moses had done so long before. The Greeks, on the other hand, being the philosophical types, had their systems and divided the world into all its appropriate boxes; they were looking for a perfectly reasonable God who fit their system, who fit into their boxes. Both were sure they had God all figured out; to both, the idea of a crucified God was scandalous—indeed, it was insane.And yet, it was through this crazy plan—and this equally crazy Messiah—that God saved the world. It wasn’t through any of our own work or our own wisdom that God saved us, not even the best we could offer; in his own wisdom, God saw to that. Though this all looks foolish to the unaided eye, God’s foolishness outsmarts our wisdom. Christ’s crucifixion, the ultimate act of powerlessness, is the ultimate act of God’s power; his crucifixion, which is complete foolishness to those who are lost, is the ultimate act of his wisdom. We don’t have the choice to look for some wiser way, because there isn’t one; we can only trust God and be saved by his wise foolishness, or cling to our own wisdom and be lost.

God’s Own Fool

OK, so this one is Erin’s fault; I got along exploring her blog after her response (which I very much appreciated) to the meme I started, and ran across her post on foolishness and God. Apparently it’s part of a synchroblog that she and some other folks have going; but while I might not resonate with this in the same way as they do, this is something with which I resonate powerfully nonetheless. It begins with Jesus, God’s designated Fool; and it ends with us, his designated fools. I’ll talk about that tomorrow. For now, I want to let Michael Card do the talking, because I’ve always loved this song.
God’s Own Fool

It seems I’ve imagined Him all of my life
As the wisest of all of mankind;
But if God’s holy wisdom is foolish to men,
He must have seemed out of His mind.
For even His family said He was mad,
And the priests said, “A demon’s to blame”;
But God in the form of this angry young man
Could not have seemed perfectly sane.

When we in our foolishness thought we were wise,
He played the fool and He opened our eyes;
When we in our weakness believed we were strong,
He became helpless to show we were wrong.
And so we follow God’s own fool,
For only the foolish can tell;
Believe the unbelievable—
Come, be a fool as well.

So come lose your life for a carpenter’s son,
For a madman who died for a dream,
And you’ll have the faith His first followers had,
And you’ll feel the weight of the beam.
So surrender the hunger to say you must know,
Have the courage to say, “I believe,”
For the power of paradox opens your eyes
And blinds those who say they can see.

ChorusWords and music: Michael Card
© 1985 Mole End Music
From the album
Scandalon, by Michael Card

More tomorrow.

Gospel witness

Barry’s post today on evangelism got me thinking. Evangelism has gotten a bad rap with a lot of people thanks to the high-pressure approach of a few—the sort of folks who grab random strangers, stick a half-dozen Scripture verses in their ear, badger them into saying a certain prayer, stuff a tract in their pocket, and walk off confident they’ve “saved another soul.” I’m sure God can use that; after all, God used Jacob, he used Jonah, he used Peter—who am I to say God can’t use anybody or anything. But what we tend to forget is that in Acts 1, Jesus didn’t say, “You will do witnessing,” he said, “You will be my witnesses.” Our call as Christians isn’t to “save souls” in that sense, but to share the life Jesus has given us with the people around us; and we aren’t called to witness to Jesus just by memorizing some spiel, we’re called to be his witnesses by the way we live our lives. As St. Francis of Assisi put it, “Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.”

Now, the downside at this point is that we often don’t hear this correctly; we have the tendency to mentally translate this into “I don’t have to tell people about Jesus, I just have to go out and live my life and that’s good enough.” Well, yes and no, sort of. Go back to that quote from St. Francis and think about this for a minute: “Preach the gospel at all times.” That’s the standard: our lives are to be sermons on the word of God, backed up by our words. Our call as disciples of Christ is to go out into the world and live in it as he did—talking with others about our Father in heaven, and just as importantly, showing his love to those around us in every way we can think of. We are called to do the work he did: to feed the hungry; to care for the sick; to welcome the outsider; to defend the oppressed; to lift up the downtrodden; to love the unlovable; to break down the barriers between race and class and gender; and to speak the truth so clearly and unflinchingly, when the opportunity arises, that people want to kill us for it.

Bumper-sticker geopolitics

I saw a bumper sticker today that caught my attention: “You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war.” It made me wish I had the person who owned that car there to talk with, to ask them one question: Why? This isn’t a truism, after all, something that can simply be presented as inarguable; and while I suppose it might be presented as a dictum that impresses by the force of its truth, I don’t find it so. Rather, this is an assertion which needs to be supported with logic and evidence; if it is so, it needs to be proven.

To be honest, I don’t think it can be—I think the study of history is very much against this proposition. To be sure, there are times when efforts to prepare for war undermine or even negate efforts to prevent it (World War I would be the classic case in point); but given the reality throughout history of aggressive expansionistic powers which tend to treat countries unprepared for war as hors d’oeuvres—which does at least make for short wars, I’ll grant—there are clearly many cases in which failing to prepare for war makes war inevitable. (Just ask Neville Chamberlain.)

The bottom line here, I think, is that war (like most major human undertakings) is complex, and neither the factors that cause it nor the strategies for preventing it can be summarized and dismissed in a bumper sticker. That sort of simplistic thinking does no one any good.

Songs of the week, for Hap

This is prefatory to a post or three on Pope Benedict XVI’s latest encyclical, which has gotten me thinking about hope, and faith. That in turn, though, along with a conversation with Hap, got me thinking about these songs, so I decided to post them.

Come InIf you’re standing next to someone
Who doesn’t know your name,
Come in, pull up a chair;
You and me, we are the same.

This is the palace of the thinkers, dreamers, in-betweeners,
The broken record-players hearing something in this music;
Here the wind blows softly, carrying a note forever,
Cradling the melody of hope.

If you’re screaming in the dark
And no one hears your voice,
Welcome to this whole new world of sound;
Come in, friend, sit down.

Chorus

Oh, it’s the atmosphere of truth
With an offering of peace;
Under your flesh of withered pride,
So many broken dreams,
Fallen man and other things . . .

If you’re reaching out to no one
And holding in a smile,
Come in and know your name;
Oh, friend, I’m listening.ChorusWords and music: Sarah Masen
© 1996 River Oaks Music/Andi Beat Goes On Music
From the album
sarah masen, by Sarah Masen

Hope Like a StrangerHope, like a stranger, came to my door;
I was afraid, I was rude—”What are you coming here for?
Have you come to stay, or are you just passing through?
I’ve seen your face, but I do not know you.”
He said, “You know me, but I’ve had to remain
Hidden in the shadows of your sorrow and pain,
For you have lived your life as a slave, so it seems,
Believing your nightmares instead of your dreams.”

Hope, like a stranger, posed a question like a dare:
“Can you mask the mysteries of your heart, pretending not to care?
For the thing that you dismissed with your cynical façade
Was the hope you’d been given from the very heart of God.
And it drove you in secret, but you held it close at bay,
And you tried to disown me, but you’re not made to be that way;
So I stand here longing, for no matter where you run
I will wait like the Father of the Prodigal Son.”

He said, “Hope, by itself, it can never be an end—
It’s like holding paper money that’s impossible to spend.
Unless the value is a given, the bargain’s incomplete.”
Then he showed me the scars on his hands and his feet.
I touched his wounds as I steadied my nerve;
He said, “I only bear the marks of the Master I serve,
And He sends me here to tell you I am bound up with Him.
You’d do well, when he comes, to also let Him in.”

Hope, like a stranger, came to my door;
But he’s risen and he stays a stranger no more. Words and music: Bob Bennett
© 1991 Bright Avenue Songs
From the album
Here on Bright Avenue, by Bob Bennett

HopeWe’ll be taking off our clothes to sing;
We’ll be wearing our own skin.
We’ll be taking off a whole lot more
Just so we can sing,
Just so we can sing.

Hope is coming out tonight,
Knocking at the door.
You’ve got to let that stranger in,
Looking at your soul,
Looking at your soul.

A peeling and a shedding mind,
Changing what we’re worth—
Blessed are the meek, somehow;
They’re taking in the earth,
Taking in the earth.

And all this talk of love and peace
And wanting something true—
Well, peace can cut the rope sometimes
That’s holding on to me and you,
Holding on to me and you.

Chorus

No sentimental bags of gold
To occupy the hurt;
It’s knowing what the demons sold
When falling to the earth,
When falling to the earth.

Now I’m stretching out across the land,
Trying my best to understand
While fear is barking like a dog,
But I’m holding out my hand,
Still holding out my hands.

Chorus

Standing in the cold,
Looking at your soul.
Words and music: Sarah Masen
© 2001 Dayspring Music, Inc.
From the album
The Dreamlife of Angels, by Sarah Masen

Anniversary of a miracle

Today marks the 67th anniversary of a miracle—one which Michael Linton, writing in First Things some time ago, suggested is “the greatest artistic miracle of our times.” On January 15, 1941, in the Nazi POW camp Stalag VIII-A at Görlitz in Silesia, the great French Catholic composer Olivier Messiaen, a prisoner in the camp, premiered his Quatuor pour la fin du temps (“Quartet for the end of time”). Messiaen, who had been given time, space, and resources by the camp commandant to enable him to write, composed the quartet for himself (on piano) and three other musicians among the prisoners, a violinist, a cellist, and a clarinetist.

What makes the work miraculous is not only the place and time in which it was written, but its character. As Linton writes:

In the midst of chaos, Messiaen wrote about the apocalypse in a completely “unapocalyptic” manner. In the previous century, the sequence from the Requiem Mass had given composers the opportunity to unleash all the thunder they could muster to depict the horrific details of God’s day of accounting. Berlioz and Verdi had both written depictions that chill—or more honestly perhaps, thrill—us to this day. And not too long after Messiaen’s quartet was completed, Schoenberg, Shostakovich, Britten, and Penderecki would write pieces expressive of the horrors of the Nazis and their war, music full of screams, howls, and cries for righteous justice against the oppressor.

But Messiaen has no place for such neo-pagan hysterics. In the middle of a prison camp, a prisoner unsure if he would ever again see his family or home again, Messiaen composed a vision of heaven where anger, violence, vengeance, and despair are not so much repressed as irrelevant. This work has nothing to do with war, or prison, or “man’s inhumanity to man.” This piece is entirely about the work of God and the glory of Jesus. There is no darkness here. There is no bitterness. There is no rage. Instead there is power, light, transcendence, ecstasy, and joy eternal.

Messiaen’s music isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, by any means—it’s modern music, for one thing, and then it’s modern in a different way from most of the music of this past century; but this is a beautiful and powerful piece that deserves to be appreciated. I’m not going to put all of it up (it’s a fairly long composition, in eight movements), but here’s a taste or two. This is a video of the first movement, “Liturgie de cristal”:

Here’s the fourth movement, “Intermède”:

And the fifth, “Louange à l’Éternité de Jésus”:

It’s great music, even if it isn’t to everyone’s taste; but just as much, and something we can all appreciate, it’s a powerful testimony to the way in which the love and the grace of God can overcome human evil.

The fantasy of the Real

I am, and have been for many years, a fan of fantasy and science fiction. Fortunately for me, as an English major, I attended a college with an English department that was generally open to such things, without too many professors who drew a distinction between ““genre fiction” and “real literature.” (I could go off on a rant about how “literary fiction” is just another genre, and indeed one of the more rulebound, hidebound and unprofitable ones, but . . . some other time.) I appreciated that at the time because it meant I didn’t have to feel put down (very often) for my reading preferences; over the years, I’ve come to appreciate it even more as I’ve come to realize just how constraining the standard academic view of literature really is. John W. Campbell, Jr., founding father of modern science fiction, famously argued that science fiction is the only real literature because it alone encompasses all possible pasts, presents and futures (and thus includes all literature); I think his conclusion is overblown, but he has a point.

It seems to me that what distinguishes real literature from efforts which don’t rise to that level is that real literature opens our eyes, our minds, our ears, and our hearts—it helps us to see, hear, and understand people, including ourselves, for who we are, and our world for what it is. The thing about science fiction, moving forward and backward along the axis of time (including onto the parallel tracks of alternate history), and fantasy, moving sideways along the axis of alternate worlds, is that they offer far more angles from which to do this. Indeed, by adopting an “unreal” setting, I think they make it easier for us to see and understand our world and ourselves more deeply than we can within a “realistic” frame of reference. (The flip side to this would be the way in which “reality shows” are the most unreal things on television.)

Now, I’ve been convinced of this for a long time, and in the process I’ve learned a lot of good theology from fantasy writers like C. S. Lewis (no surprise), J. R. R. Tolkien (ditto), and Stephen R. Donaldson (which might be a little more unexpected); but it’s not a case I’ve heard many people make. Now, however, along has come Alison Milbank with her book Chesterton and Tolkien As Theologians: The Fantasy of the Real to explore the truth of this in the work of these two great English Catholic writers. I can’t comment directly on the book, since even on Amazon, it’s going for $93.60, and that just isn’t in the budget right now; but from the review Ralph Wood wrote for the First Things website (in “On the Square”), I’m very much looking forward to reading it. In Chesterton and Tolkien (among others), we are caught by the understanding that the world is more real, and high and beautiful and perilous and terrible, than our senses tell us it is; and from what Wood has to say, Milbank captures this well.

Both writers resorted to fantasy as an escape into reality, as Tolkien liked to say. They were fascinated with fairies because Elfland, as Chesterton called it, enabled them to envision the world as wondrously magical no less than terribly contingent: as “utterly real and enchanted at one and the same time.” Whereas conventional Christian apologists often cast theological stones at the obduracy of atheists and materialists, Tolkien and Chesterton answer them with dwarves and ents.

Beautiful. I look forward to reading this book.