Category Archives: Culture and society

Liberalism

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On Twitter some time ago, John Piper offered this succinct definition of the impulse behind liberal theology: “Make the Gospel acceptable to the world rather than showing the world it is unintelligible without the Gospel.”

Some might say that many conservatives do the same—that the only difference is what part of the world they’re trying to please. Those people would be absolutely correct; but it doesn’t invalidate Dr. Piper’s point. Rather, what it shows is that many conservatives are, in fact, far more liberal than they think they are. Indeed, it shows just how great the triumph of the liberal Protestant project was, and how many of those who consider themselves to be in opposition to it are actually captive to its assumptions. The so-called “modernist-fundamentalist” controversy of the 1920s was in truth a conflict between modernists; fundamentalism was (and continues to be) a movement that sought to refute liberalism’s conclusions while accepting its presuppositions about knowledge, truth, and the proper basis for belief.

The parent-teacher dynamic, Gen-X style

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I’d never heard of the site Edutopia before today, but one of my Facebook friends posted a link to an interesting piece: “A Teacher’s Guide to Generation X Parents.” It’s ostensibly addressed to teachers (as you can see from the title), but it feels more like a piece of self-analysis as the author reflects on her own experience. The key to the article, I think, is this:

If you want to know what’s unhealed from your own childhood, have children. Key to decoding our parental behavior is understanding that we are, albeit often unconsciously, doing for our children what no one did for us.

I don’t disagree with that, but I’m still mulling the piece as a whole; the comments are quite interesting as well. If you’re a parent or a teacher, check it out—I don’t know if you’ll agree, but it will give you something to think about.

On art that can truly be called “Christian”

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We in the church in this country tend to throw around terms like “Christian music” and “Christian fiction” pretty carelessly, without really thinking much about them, or what they mean, or even if they actually can mean anything at all. There’s a good argument to be made that only people can truly be called Christian.  W. H. Auden once declared that there cannot be “such a thing as a Christian culture” because “culture is one of Caesar’s things.” I’m beginning to understand what he meant, I think, and his point is one with which we must reckon.

That said—as Christians, as people made in the image of God, we are most definitely called to be culture makers; in Tolkien’s terms, we were made to be sub-creators working under our great Creator, and we have both the need and the responsibility to do so wisely and well, in a way that is true to our faith. As I wrote a while back,

Stories matter. They matter because they’re the stuff of our life, of our reality and our nature, and the expression of the creative ability we’ve been given by (and in the image of) the one who made us—and we matter. They matter because they affect us, moving our emotions and shaping our view of the world, both for good and for ill. And as a Christian, I affirm that they matter because everything we do matters, because the best of what we do will endure forever. And if they matter, then we need to take them seriously, both as readers and, for those of us so called, as writers—for our sake, and for everyone’s.

The same can be said, in a bit of a different way, for music, the visual arts, and for the other media in which we create; and if we want to call that “Christian art” as a shorthand, then the shorthand has value, assuming we realize that’s all it is. But that still leaves us asking, how do we do this—and when we do it, what exactly are we doing?

Among the folks who are wrestling well with this interlocking set of questions are the writers at the group blog Novel Matters; my wife pointed me this morning to a post there by Patti Hill that I think is particularly good. Of course, she has a real advantage because she starts off quoting Flannery O’Connor, which is always worth doing:

Ever since there have been such things as novels, the world has been flooded with bad fiction for which the religious impulse has been responsible. The sorry religious novel comes about when the writer supposes that because of his belief, he is somehow dispensed from the obligation to penetrate concrete reality. He will think that the eyes of the Church or of the Bible or of his particular theology have already done the seeing for him, and that his business is to rearrange this essential vision into satisfying patterns, getting himself as little dirty as possible.

To really understand where O’Connor is coming from in writing this, I think it’s important to add a couple other quotes from the same book:

Dogma is an instrument for penetrating reality. . . . It is one of the functions of the Church to transmit the prophetic vision that is good for all time, and when the novelist has this as a part of his own vision, he has a powerful extension of sight.

Your beliefs will be the light by which you see, but they will not be what you see and they will not be a substitute for seeing.

For O’Connor, then, I think we can fairly say that it’s our obligation as Christians to see the world truly and deeply, as it is rather than as we would like it to be—and that for those gifted and called to write or to create art in other ways (and if you are gifted, then you are called, in whatever way and to whatever degree), there is the further responsibility to represent reality in such a way that others can see more truly and deeply than they did before. Too many people (not just Christians, by any means) shy away from that, because as O’Connor says, it requires getting dirty—really digging into and dealing with the dirt of this world, because you cannot know this world and you cannot see it truly and you cannot portray it rightly without knowing and dealing with its dirt. There’s dirt all over the place, and in every human soul; you just can’t avoid it.

So then, how? Hill nails it, I think:

We look to Jesus.

No one saw the world more concretely than Jesus. A whore washed his feet with her tears. He not only made wine, he drank it. He touched leprous skin. He invited himself to a tax collector’s house for lunch. And, I’m thinking, he heard naughty words there. Caked with blood, spittle, sweat, and dirt he took the nails for us. Gruesome. Violent. Definitely off-putting. That’s crucifixion, the purest act of love.

To follow in the steps of Jesus, to write in a God-honoring, “dirty” way, we must see the world—as best we can—as Jesus sees it, with empathy, detail, and love. And so it is for the Christian writer to observe and portray the beauty and brutality and pain and suffering and redemption all through the eyes of love.

Yeah—that’s spot-on.

If it’s occurring to you that this all sounds like it’s not just about art, you’re right; after all, in a way, what we’re really asking here is how we’re supposed to create art as disciples of Christ—which is to say, how do we understand creation as discipleship—and that inevitably flips us around to the corollary: how do we understand discipleship as creation, as a process in which we stand under God our Creator as the sub-creators of our own lives, as the process of making our lives a work of art for God? As I’ve asked elsewhere, what does it mean for our lives to be poems for God?

Marriage is serious business

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It hasn’t happened to me in Indiana, but when I served the church in Colorado, I used to get a lot of calls from couples (mostly from the female half) asking if I could marry them on Friday, or next week, or in two weeks, or next month. Often, the request was accompanied by prattle to the effect that they already had the reception hall, the musicians, the caterer, and everything else all lined up, and now all they needed was a church and a pastor for the ceremony. (Which, Colorado law being what it is, they actually didn’t need, but never mind that.) Sometimes, I instead got the explanation that they were on vacation in the Rockies and had just decided to get married. Either way, they were always surprised and unhappy to hear that I was neither interested nor, in fact, able to drop everything and marry two complete strangers at the last minute with no preparation and no idea of the health of their relationship; they wanted to get married, what more did I need to know? Trying to explain to them that I took their impending marriage far too seriously to marry them never seemed to work, somehow.

And yet, that was neither more nor less than the truth. Read more→

The partisan mindset

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Gerard Alexander, a professor in the political science department at the University of Virginia, contends that liberals have a particular problem with condescension:

American liberals, to a degree far surpassing conservatives, appear committed to the proposition that their views are correct, self-evident, and based on fact and reason, while conservative positions are not just wrong but illegitimate, ideological and unworthy of serious consideration. Indeed, all the appeals to bipartisanship notwithstanding, President Obama and other leading liberal voices have joined in a chorus of intellectual condescension. . . .

This condescension is part of a liberal tradition that for generations has impoverished American debates over the economy, society and the functions of government—and threatens to do so again today, when dialogue would be more valuable than ever.

Liberals have dismissed conservative thinking for decades, a tendency encapsulated by Lionel Trilling’s 1950 remark that conservatives do not “express themselves in ideas but only in action or in irritable mental gestures which seek to resemble ideas.” During the 1950s and ’60s, liberals trivialized the nascent conservative movement. Prominent studies and journalistic accounts of right-wing politics at the time stressed paranoia, intolerance and insecurity, rendering conservative thought more a psychiatric disorder than a rival. In 1962, Richard Hofstadter referred to “the Manichaean style of thought, the apocalyptic tendencies, the love of mystification, the intolerance of compromise that are observable in the right-wing mind.” . . .

It follows that the thinkers, politicians and citizens who advance conservative ideas must be dupes, quacks or hired guns selling stories they know to be a sham. In this spirit, New York Times columnist Paul Krugman regularly dismisses conservative arguments not simply as incorrect, but as lies. Writing last summer, Krugman pondered the duplicity he found evident in 35 years’ worth of Wall Street Journal editorial writers: “What do these people really believe? I mean, they’re not stupid—life would be a lot easier if they were. So they know they’re not telling the truth. But they obviously believe that their dishonesty serves a higher truth. . . . The question is, what is that higher truth?”

In Krugman’s world, there is no need to take seriously the arguments of “these people”—only to plumb the depths of their errors and imagine hidden motives.

But, if conservative leaders are crass manipulators, then the rank-and-file Americans who support them must be manipulated at best, or stupid at worst. . . .

In this view, we should pay attention to conservative voters’ underlying problems but disregard the policy demands they voice; these are illusory, devoid of reason or evidence. This form of liberal condescension implies that conservative masses are in the grip of false consciousness. When they express their views at town hall meetings or “tea party” gatherings, it might be politically prudent for liberals to hear them out, but there is no reason to actually listen. . . .

Finally, liberals condescend to the rest of us when they say conservatives are driven purely by emotion and anxiety—including fear of change—whereas liberals have the harder task of appealing to evidence and logic. . . .

These four liberal narratives not only justify the dismissal of conservative thinking as biased or irrelevant—they insist on it. By no means do all liberals adhere to them, but they are mainstream in left-of-center thinking.

Where I part company with Dr. Alexander is in his statement that liberals are much worse than conservatives in this regard. That may well be true in his experience, but it isn’t in mine. Read more→

The time that is given

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In the great fantasy epic The Lord of the Rings, near the beginning of the first book, the wizard Gandalf tells the young hobbit Frodo Baggins, who will in the end be the great hero of the story, about the dark times in which they live, and the great challenges that lie ahead. Frodo, understandably, says he would rather live in happier times, times that aren’t fraught with such darkness; to which Gandalf responds, “So do I, and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

The time that is given. In modern Christianity, it’s almost an article of faith that C. S. Lewis was a very wise man; but it’s too easy for us to forget that his great friend J. R. R. Tolkien, the man who played the most important role in leading Lewis to faith, was also a very wise man—because we mostly know him for his fantasy stories. But there is very great wisdom in that line, wisdom rooted deep in Scripture, and particularly in the creation account. We are limited creatures. We are limited in our abilities—good at some things, bad at others—and while we can grow and develop, we’re limited in our ability to do so. We’re limited physically—I’d love to be able to play shortstop in the majors, but that was never even a vaguely plausible dream—and limited mentally as well. We’re limited by our gender, and to some degree by the societal expectations that go along with it. We’re limited in our ability to control or influence the world around us—we can only reach so far, and what is beyond our reach eludes us; our bodies stop at the edge of our skin, and everything beyond that is not-us, carrying on its existence apart from us.

And most fundamentally, we are limited by space and time—we are creatures of place, and of the time we have been given. We are creatures of the places we live and have lived, and we are creatures of our place in human history; we will never know the life of an English knight who fought with Henry V at Agincourt, or of a Russian revolutionary in October, 1917, or of one of the shoguns who ruled Japan in the 1800s. We were each born at a particular time, in a particular country, and have lived through a particular set of experiences; we know our life and no other.

This is how we are; and as Genesis shows us, we were created so. When God created the first human, he didn’t just drop him off to wander around, homeless; rather, he placed the human in a garden which had been created to be his home. God gave him a location, a home address, a neighborhood, even if his only neighbors had either four feet or wings, and he told the human, “Do your work in this place.” Today, he tells all of us the same: “Do your work in this place, the place where I have put you; follow me in this community, in the home where you live, in the family of which you are a part, in the relationships you have now.” As Eugene Peterson put it in his book Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, “All living is local: this land, this neighborhood, these trees and streets and houses, this work, these people,” and thus it is as locals that we must live out our faith, placing the word of God in the concrete reality of “this land, this neighborhood, . . . this work, these people”—and bringing it alive in our life in response to all the concrete frustrations, irritations, and problems that “this neighborhood, . . . this work, these people” bring us. It is this place on earth that gives our lives their shape.

It is also this place in time—and, more generally, time itself. As Genesis also tells us, we are creatures of time, our lives shaped and formed in every respect by time in its passing. We can see this in our bodies, which are a collection of rhythms—the rhythm of our breathing, in and out, in and out; of our pulse, the twofold beating of our hearts, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM; of sleeping and waking, as day succeeds night and night follows day in turn. We can see it in the rhythm of the seasons, spring-summer-fall-winter and spring again. We can see it in the music that threads its way through our lives, providing an ever-changing soundtrack to our existence, and in the flow of our movements as we walk, or run. And we can see it most fundamentally in Genesis 1, which shows us God creating the universe in time, in the flow of time, and shaping a rhythm: and God said, and God said, and God said, in six-part harmony—six parts to creation, and then a seventh part, the seventh day, the day of rest.

This is, by the way, true even if Genesis 1 isn’t talking about six 24-hour days; the point isn’t counting hours, it’s that this is the rhythm God built into creation, the rhythm for which we were created, of work and rest. Both are part of his design for our lives, and both are necessary if we are to live as he made us to live. Whether you’re still working for a living or you’re retired, God has work for you to do in this place; whether it’s necessary for you to support yourself or not, it’s a part of God’s plan for you, both for your sake and for the sake of others. He also has rest for you in this place, time set aside in his schedule for you to set work aside, during which we gather to worship him as one people; and together, together, they make up the base rhythm of life, the meter to which the poetry of our days is to be set. I should note, I am indebted to Cambridge theologian and musician Jeremy Begbie for that way of putting it, and more generally for his use of music to illuminate Christian theology.

The problem is, the world tries to convince us that limitations are a bad thing, and specifically that this limitation is a bad thing; but it isn’t. Think of our music, and I think you’ll understand, because in our Western musical tradition, meter is one of the standard limitations that gives shape and character to the work of composition. Think of 4/4—the time signature of a Sousa march, and many of our great hymns. “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.” Or 3/4—I remember being told in elementary school that this was waltz time. I was, what, seven years old, I didn’t even know what a waltz was, but that’s what stuck with me—3/4 is for waltzes and Irishmen. “Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart.” 6/8 is always fun—beat it in two, sing it in triplets. “In shady green pastures so rich and so sweet, God leads his dear children along.” And so on. The meter isn’t a straitjacket; you can vary the rhythms, throw in changes of time signature, whatever you will. But the meter provides the structure, the necessary base rhythm within which, and against which, all those other things can work to produce their desired effects. As another great Christian novelist, Flannery O’Connor, said, art transcends its limitations by remaining within them.

In the same way, God has given us this sevenfold rhythm of work and rest, of work and worship, to be the base rhythm of our lives. You don’t see too many songs written in seven, because that extra beat throws things out of the typical patterns, but I actually learned one this weekend. “What we have heard, what we have known . . .” It’s a setting of Psalm 78, and I don’t know if that’s why Greg Scheer wrote it in 7/8, but the time signature gives it a real sprightliness; the extra beat breaks it out of ordinary time into something else quite again. The same is true in our lives of the Sabbath, of the day of rest—it breaks us out of the ordinary time that our world and its economy would dictate, a straitjacket rhythm of work, work, work, work. That’s the driving beat of money and accumulation and more, more, more; it is, if you will, the meter of a life governed by nothing but material concerns and the desire for things. Think of it as 4/4 with never a change in tempo or stress and nothing but quarter notes in sight. But the Sabbath—the mere fact of this God-ordained day of rest throws us out of that meter; it fatally disrupts the profit-driven, consumer-driven, one-who-dies-with-the-most-toys-wins, all-about-me rhythms of this world, and shows us another way to live.

This is important, because as Genesis will show us in chapter 3, human sin disrupted the music for which God created us, and so the rhythms of our culture are now very much at odds with his will for us, and with the life for which he made us. As Dr. Begbie puts it, in calling us to focus on God and God alone, worship sets up a cross-rhythm in our lives—the rhythm of the cross, which runs counter to the pounding beat of our culture. God calls us to live very much across the grain of that culture, and we can’t just do that by main effort; our culture is too powerful. It’s like the big black SUV stopped next to us at the light with the bass cranked so high it’s shaking our car from the tires up. To overcome that overwhelming sound, we need consistent, steady exposure to the cross-rhythm of worship—to what Eugene Peterson, in his translation of the Bible, rendered as “the unforced rhythms of grace.” We cannot work our way into a truly Christlike life, because we learn to work from the world, and we learn to work in its way; but if we cannot force it, we can let God’s unforced rhythms of grace carry us along, as we learn to worship. We can focus our minds and hearts on him, opening our lives to his rhythm, and in so doing, allow him to transform us. Instead of trying to beat our own time, we can accept the time our great Conductor has given us, and let him direct us on.

(Cross-posted from Of a Sunday)

Thought on Gov. Palin

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So Gov. Palin went out on her book tour, all over the media, attracting huge crowds, driving the Left to invent new “facts” with which to attack her (and also driving her book to the top of the bestseller list), and I had nothing to say about it. Of course, as noted, I haven’t had much to say about anything else, either, in this space for a while; in particular, what with one thing and another, I just haven’t had the energy or the time to spare to engage with political goings-on the way I typically do. This is especially true given the goings-on that are going on; I know where the Anchoress was coming from last month when she wrote,

I didn’t even give the news more than a passing glance because it was all so depressing.

Before that, though, I had a couple folks accuse me of hero-worship for Sarah Palin, and I’ve been wanting to respond to that charge, because it isn’t true. I’m convinced that the secret of Barack Obama’s success is that he tapped into a deep latent hunger (and not just on the Left) for a secular Messiah—and that as such, his success contains the roots of his failure, because he isn’t up to the task, as no mere human being could be—and I want no part of it. I do have people I consider heroes, but I don’t even feel hero-worship for them; and Gov. Palin isn’t in that category anyway.

However, I do have a tremendous amount of respect for her, and I support her staunchly, not as a hero or some sort of saving figure, but as I believe the best and most promising leader in the American political landscape. She isn’t perfect, but no politician is—indeed, no leader in any walk of life is; what folks like USS Mariner’s Dave Cameron have argued with respect to baseball managers (that there are few who significantly improve their teams, a lot more who really hurt their teams, and the vast majority in the middle who have little effect) seems to me to apply to politicians as well. The thing is, for various reasons, I believe Gov. Palin to be one of the relatively uncommon politicians who has done and will do real good, and so I support her.

First among those reasons is the fact that I agree with her political philosophy and positions. It’s a simple thing, but not a small thing: what she has done during her time in politics so far and what she has argued ought to be done agrees quite closely with what I believe ought to be done. I’m sure there are areas in which I am not in agreement with her positions, but in the areas in which she’s made her own position clear (as opposed to supporting John McCain’s agenda during her time as his running mate), I really haven’t found any yet.

Second, I believe Gov. Palin to be a person of strong personal integrity and character. This is not to say she’s sinless, which would be an incredibly unreasonable expectation of anybody; but it is to say that she has shown the character to resist significant political temptation, and to hold fast to her beliefs and convictions even in the face of hostile opposition. The fact that she has endured the slings and arrows of outrageous media over the past year and remained pretty much the same person with the same set of beliefs is strong evidence for this conclusion. The fact that she showed with her resignation that she has higher priorities than holding political office, with the power and perks that go along with it, is further evidence.

Third, while I don’t claim that she’s a genius, I believe Gov. Palin is plenty bright enough to be President, and more importantly has shown herself to be a sufficiently quick study to stay abreast of the information flow that runs through 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Fourth, Gov. Palin isn’t just a thinker, she’s a doer. Even having left the governor’s office in Juneau partway through her one term, she accomplished quite a bit; and since leaving office, she has exercised considerable influence on the political conversation in this country through the decisive stands she’s taken and the arguments she’s offered for them.

Fifth, it was once said of Grover Cleveland, “They love him most for the enemies he has made,” and something of that sort might be said about Gov. Palin as well. The fact that she clearly worries the hardline Left more than anyone else on the Right suggests that she is truly the natural leader for the American Right at this point in time; the fact that she is scarcely less disturbing to the inside-the-Beltway “conservative” elite says, I believe, much the same thing. I have argued more than once that the divide between the elite political-media complex and the rest of the country is at least as important as our left-right divide, and that our country really needs leaders to emerge—preferably in both parties, from both liberals and conservatives—who actually represent ordinary barbarians and not just the groupthink of our incestuous media-political class, with a perspective that reaches beyond the Potomac and the Hudson. At this point, the only major political figure who answers that is Gov. Palin—and I fear that if our elites succeed in squashing her, there won’t be another for a long time, if ever.

And of Gov. Palin’s faith? No, that isn’t a major issue for me. The fact that she clearly sees religious beliefs as equally valid with any other type of belief to be held and argued in the marketplace of ideas, and to be used to support platforms and positions in the political marketplace, is a good thing, but she need not be an evangelical Christian to understand that. As to the content of her faith, I know she is conservative and everything I see seems to confirm that it’s real, but I have no idea whether the churches that have formed her have truly been Christ-centered gospel-driven congregations, or simply preaching a mishmash of morality, patriotism, and can-do spirit. I don’t know what she thinks of Joel Osteen or if she’s read John Piper or Tim Keller (or, for that matter, Jared Wilson). As such, I can’t say that I know enough to say anything about her faith one way or the other.

And besides, I won’t be voting to send representatives to a church council next November, nor will I be voting for a Theologian-in-Chief in 2012. I will be voting for politicians, and ultimately for a Commander-in-Chief. As such, I don’t want to confuse the issues. What matters most isn’t who’s the best Christian, but who’s likely to serve this country best in a given political office. My conclusion remains that the answer to that question for the 2012 presidential election is, at this point, Sarah Louise Heath Palin—and that’s why I support her.

The old pastor didn’t do it that way . . .

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Carol Howard Merritt put up an interesting post early last week about intergenerational differences in work style and approaches to getting things done, and the ways in which those differences affect our churches.

Work looks different. And sometimes it pesters the intergenerational tensions like a chigger just below the skin. There is something annoying and wrong, although we can’t figure out just what it is. Older generations of people cannot point to anything that their younger pastor is not doing. In fact, the church might even be growing, but there is a difference in the manner in which she is getting it done that vexes them.

She lays out differences in the ways we study, the ways in which we communicate, and the work which we do; and though every pastor and every church is different from every other, as generalizations, I think the differences she identifies are quite perceptive. (Certainly her first point is all too familiar to me as something that got me into trouble at the last church I served.) It’s not a long article, but you’ll likely spend more time thinking about it than you do reading it.

Oh, and as a side note, you might pray for the Rev. Merritt, who fell last Wednesday and dislocated her shoulder.

Give me a home among the gum trees

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One of my enduring memories of Regent is one Fall Retreat (my first year there, I think), seeing the school’s entire Australian contingent, led by our utterly irrepressible Australian Pentecostal NT professor Dr. Rikki Watts, perform the song “Home Among the Gum Trees”—as a sort of chorus line, no less. I’ve had that rattling around in my brain today for some reason, and decided to post it. It says a lot about Australia and its people that this performance was from the memorial service for Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who I’m sure would have mightily approved.