The atheism of presumption and the case for God

The “New Atheists” have sold a lot of books and spun up a lot of media coverage; what they haven’t done, particularly, is make a very good case for atheism. Mostly, they preach to the converted and mock those who disagree with them; along the same lines as C. S. Lewis’ observation (in The Screwtape Letters) that not everyone can make a joke but anyone can talk about something as if it’s funny (which is how he defines flippancy), they’ve demonstrated that it’s easier to act as if something’s already been proven than it is to go out and prove it. Remove their assumption that atheism is the only intellectually respectable position, and there’s not a whole lot left.

Now, this wouldn’t matter if their assumption were correct; but it isn’t. In truth, as William Lane Craig notes in a recent article in Christianity Today, that point of view is behind the times. The relative weakness of the intellectual case for atheism was underscored when the world’s most important atheist philosopher, the man who first argued for “the presumption of atheism,” Dr. Antony Flew, abandoned atheism (a change of mind he discussed in interviews with Dr. Gary Habermas and Dr. Benjamin Wiker). Perhaps in part consequence, more and more of the younger generation of Christians have become interested in apologetics (the study of the defense of Christianity on rational grounds); as I’ve posted before, I wouldn’t be surprised if the primary long-term effect of the “New Atheists” and their work is not the growth of atheism but the growth of the church.

God language in a fog

One of the latest flaps sparked by the PC(USA)’s General Assembly this year (and why are there always so many? The one good side to cutting the number of assemblies in half is that it cuts down the number of fights they can start) comes out of the Committee on Interfaith and Ecumenical Relationships. The committee was considering a resolution which included the statement, “Jews, Christians, and Muslims worship a common God, although each understands that God differently”; when that raised objections, they rewrote it this way: “Though we hold differing understandings of how God has been revealed to humankind, the PC(USA) affirms our belief in one God, the God of Abraham, whom Jews and Muslims also worship.” As Viola Larson notes, that rewrite doesn’t actually change anything—it’s just the same thing in different words.Here’s my question. Some say that Jews, Christians, and Muslims “all worship the same God,” while others object, some vehemently—but what does that mean? What actually is the content and significance of that phrase, and what is it intended to communicate? I don’t think we really have a common understanding of it; our attempts to discuss Christianity, Judaism and Islam are muddled and blurred by the imprecision of our language. I suggest a moratorium on this phrase and all equivalents as counterproductive; whatever we want to say about the relative beliefs of these three religions, we should look for better, clearer, more precise ways to say it. We have enough issues with these sorts of conversations as it is—we don’t need a lack of clarity making things worse.

Love beyond reason

Most Christians have probably heard the line that the Christian life is a marathon, not a sprint, and we sort of get the idea; but since it would never occur to most of us to actually want to run a marathon, I don’t think the point really sticks with us. We understand that, yes, the life of faith is more than just brief bursts of activity, that there’s a necessary element of endurance there; but we still think that when it gets to the point that we don’t think we can run anymore, it’s OK to stop. The thing about running a marathon is, when you get to that point, that’s when you have to dig down and push through—and that’s the part of the parallel we lose. We basically believe that when it no longer makes any sense to us to keep trying, when we no longer seem to have any reason to do so, we can stop; but that’s not what Jesus calls us to. That’s not the radical obedience and radical discipleship he wants from us. Jesus calls us to a whole ’nother level of endurance.I got to thinking about that as I was reading Jared’s brilliant post, “Love Is Never a Waste.” It’s a long, deep post, and I won’t try to summarize it; but here’s an excerpt or two:

We likely all recall the time Peter came up to Jesus and basically asked, “When I can I stop forgiving someone who keeps wronging me? After seven times?” (I can almost hear him hoping, “Please tell me after seven times.”) But Jesus responds to him, saying “No, not seven times. Seventy times seven times.” . . .Now, Jesus is a smart guy. In fact, if we believe he is who he said he was, we know he has all the omniscience of the God of the Universe. So he knows this is a tall order. He knows it doesn’t “make sense” in our world of abuse and betrayal and pettiness and vindictiveness and pride and arrogance and egotism.So why does he do this? If he knows our capacity for love and forgiveness is finite, how can he call us to persevere in these things toward others? The short answer, I think, is because God Himself perseveres in them toward us. . . .Because God’s love toward us is a) despite sin worthy of eternal punishment, and b) relentlessly patient in its eternal perseverance, we have no Christian right to say to someone who has wronged us, even if they continue to wrong us, “You have reached your limit with me. My love for you stops now.” Doing so fails to truly see the depths of our sin in the light of God’s holiness. And if God, who is perfect and holy, will forgive and love we who are most certainly not, on what basis do we have to be unforgiving and unloving to others?I am guessing most of us agree with this in theory. There’s not too many Christians who will say, despite Jesus’ instructions, that it’s okay to hate your enemies and curse those who persecute you.I think the place where we really have trouble with this stuff is when it comes to people who are hurting us that we actually do really want to love. We really do want to keep forgiving them. But we are weary. They are wearing us out. We don’t know how much longer we can go on. We want to know if we can give up, but we’re scared what that might mean. Surely God does not want to us to keep enduring this pain. Surely he will understand if we just . . . give up. Things aren’t working. The results aren’t being seen. Efforts are not bearing fruit. I’ve changed, but he or she hasn’t.Most of us know 1 Corinthians 13 really well, but let’s revisit a piece of it again:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres . . . Love never fails.

That’s some scary stuff right there. For we who are used to thinking of love as romance or warm-and-fuzzies or butterflies or sex, Paul has Jesus in mind as the model of love when he tells us, “Love is about sacrifice and service. And it keeps going. It never fails.” . . .I don’t think “Love never fails” means “Love always gets the result the lover wants.” I think it means what it says: Love is not a failure.Love is not a failure regardless of the results.This is why: Because God is not a failure, and God is love. When we are loving someone with a persevering, sacrificial love, we are reflecting the eternal goodness and grace of God Himself. We are glorifying God, and there is no higher calling than that. None.We love—not because it will “change the world” (although it may)—but because God loves us (1 John 4:19). . . .Whatever happens, whenever it happens, your love is not in vain. You are not alone, for God loves you and has approved your love through the sacrifice of his Son. Cast off despair; cast all your cares on Him. Love never fails. Love is never a waste.

That’s powerful, true, and critically important; the problem is, we keep collapsing this to the limits of our own self-expectations. We know God says, “Never stop forgiving, never stop loving, rejoice in all things, love your enemies, turn the other cheek,” and the like, but we don’t believe he really means it; we get to a certain point where it just doesn’t make any sense to us to keep going, and we say to ourselves, “Surely God will understand if we quit now—surely he doesn’t want us to keep putting ourselves through this,” and then we quit. We quit because, as Jared says, we don’t see the results we want to see, and we’re quite sure we never will; we quit because it’s not reasonable to expect us to continue, forgetting that it wasn’t reasonable to expect Jesus to allow himself to be crucified for a bunch of smelly, vicious little ingrates, either. We quit because because it’s not fair to keep forgiving and forgiving someone who’s never going to change, forgetting that that’s pretty much what Jesus does for us; and we quit because the agony of loving someone who’s bound and determined to shipwreck themselves despite us is just too much to bear, forgetting that it’s in bearing precisely that agony that we are most truly sharing in the suffering of Christ.In short, we quit because we turn to God and say, “What more can you expect of me? I’m only human”; and he looks at us and responds, “No, you’re not. I’ve put my Spirit within you, and in me, you’re more than you think you are. That’s why I’m calling you to go beyond what you think you can do, beyond where you think it makes sense to stop, and trust me that it will be worth it in the end; I’m making you like me, and this is part of that work.” Ultimately, like everything else, this is rooted in trust in God—trust that we really can do what he’s calling us to do, and that it really will be for our good.At this point, someone’s probably asking, “Doesn’t this just open us up for abuse?”—to which the answer is, “No, but.” No, it doesn’t open us to abuse, because allowing people to abuse us isn’t actually a loving thing to do to them; that merely empowers them in their sin. But, avoiding being abused isn’t the highest good, either. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, “Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.” And you know what? He meant that, too. Our highest priority isn’t supposed to be self-protection; Jesus calls us to love and serve him by loving and serving others past the limits of what we think is safe, and trust that in truth, whatever happens, whenever it happens, indeed it won’t be in vain—because he who calls us is faithful.

The gospel according to Firefly

“Oh, but you did. You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me. But since that’s a concept you can’t seem to wrap your head around, then you got no place here.
You did it to me, Jayne. And that’s a fact.”
—Malcolm Reynolds to Jayne Cobb, “Ariel,” Episode 9, FireflyThis is from the crowning scene of perhaps the best of the handful of episodes we got of Firefly, one of the best scenes I’ve ever been fortunate enough to watch on TV. To explain this line to those not familiar with the show: during the episode, during a raid on an Alliance hospital, Jayne tried to sell out Simon and River Tam, the ship’s two fugitive passengers (Simon, a doctor, is also the ship’s medic, and the one who inspired the raid), to the Alliance. Unfortunately for him, the Alliance officials don’t honor the deal and he gets taken as well, at which point he starts fighting to save himself (and the Tams). They make it back to the ship, and Jayne thinks he’s gotten away with his attempted betrayal; but Mal’s too smart for him, resulting in this (note: there are a few errors in the captioning):

(For a transcript of the episode, go here.)I’ve always been struck by two things in this scene. The first is Mal’s statement to Jayne which I’ve quoted above, which is strikingly reminiscent of the words of Jesus in Matthew 25:40 (though Jayne did evil instead of good). The point is of course different, since Mal isn’t (and doesn’t claim to be) God—but it’s related. From Mal’s point of view, it isn’t enough to show loyalty to him alone: you have to be loyal as well to all those to whom he’s committed himself. Any violation of loyalty to any of them—any betrayal of the crew bond—is a betrayal which he takes personally, and which therefore brings inevitable judgment.The other is what saves Jayne: repentance, as evidenced by the stirring of shame. Jayne’s not much of one to be ashamed of anything—if you don’t count his reaction at the end of “Jaynestown,” the show’s seventh episode, this might be the first time in his life he’s felt shame—so this is a significant moment; and at that sign that Jayne is truly repentant, Mal spares his life (though he doesn’t let him out of the airlock right away—perhaps to encourage further self-examination on Jayne’s part). In the face of repentance, mercy triumphs over judgment.

Skeptical conversations, part VII: The Holy Spirit and the Bible

Continuing the conversation . . . Parts I-VI here.

A: Now, the Father and the Son I understand, and I can see how you speak of them as personal; but I don’t understand the Spirit. For one thing, there is no personal image there—“Spirit” seems rather vague and impersonal, much like the Force in Star Wars. For another, “Father” and “Son” are both relational labels, defining one person in relationship to a second person, but there is nothing relational about “Spirit”; it doesn’t seem to fit.

R: The most common answer, at least in the Western churches, is that the Spirit is the love between the Father and the Son; this dates to Augustine, who wrote a book on the Trinity. I don’t like it, at least not phrased that way; I think that understanding of the Spirit tends to depersonalize him, for one thing, and it’s already far too easy to conceive of the Spirit merely as an impersonal force. I think it’s true that there’s a connection between the Spirit of God and the relationship between the Father and the Son—you might perhaps say that the Spirit is the Spirit of the Father and Son in relationship, or in some sense the Spirit of the relationship between them—but I wouldn’t want to collapse it any more than that, for fear of limiting the Spirit.

A: I can see that; and I don’t see that it makes any sense to call love, or a relationship, or anything of that sort a person.

R: Well, it has the advantage of explaining where exactly the Spirit came from, and why; something which, as you noted, is much clearer in the case of the Father and the Son.

A: I didn’t think you were all that fond of explaining those sorts of questions.

R: I’m in favor of explaining as much as possible, just not of forcing explanations. In any case, that the Spirit is a person and that he is God are clear from the biblical texts, and beyond that they are primarily concerned with his work; for the Spirit is the one who carries out the work of God in the world, and he is God’s empowering presence with his people. Basically, I would say the work of the Spirit is threefold: he bears witness to the Father and the Son; he mediates the work of Christ to us; and he lives in us, empowering us to follow Jesus and grow in holiness.

The first point is where the doctrine of revelation comes in, because it is the Spirit who reveals God to us, and it is only through his revelation that we can know God at all.

A: Since God is incomprehensible.

R: Right, but also because we are fallen creatures—our reason has been damaged no less than the rest of us. God is too much for us to come to know by unassisted reason, but there’s also the fact that we prefer gods made in our own image, rather than the other way around. In any case, theologians have typically divided revelation into two categories, general and special revelation. General revelation is God’s revelation of himself to everyone, in nature—through the physical world with its laws, through human nature with its laws, and through human history. Special revelation, on the other hand, is communicated supernaturally by God, either directly or through a human agent.

A: That would be the Bible.

R: Yes, and as far as God’s self-revelation, that is the end of it. Now, I don’t agree with the division of revelation into general and special revelation, though to be sure the Bible is not the same sort of thing as a scientific study or a history textbook; but fundamentally, as the German theologian Wolfhart Pannenberg has argued, the important point is that God reveals himself through his activity in creation and history. The Bible is of particular importance because it is a particular record, inspired by the Holy Spirit, of particular acts of God in history, but this is not truly a different kind of revelation, because it is all the work of the Spirit in and among us; it is, rather, a different depth of revelation, and it is necessary because without it, we cannot perceive God’s disclosure of himself in nature and human history.

A: Because of sin, I suppose?

R: Yes, for two reasons. One, our sin has blighted the order and beauty of God’s creation. To take the most obvious sort of example, if you go up into the mountains and come upon a valley that has been thoroughly logged, leaving the small river flowing through it brown and choked with soil because of erosion, what does that make you feel?

A: Revulsion for what we’ve done to the earth.

R: On the other hand, a logger might look at it and see a job well done, a job that fed their families and provided wood to build homes for other families. For my part, I don’t think logging is bad, but the way it’s done often is—which illustrates, I think, the way that human sin has disordered and damaged God’s self-revelation in nature. Then too, of course, you have the way that human sin has blighted our history; one might conclude from the study of history that there is a God, but one might also say with Baudelaire that if there is a God, he is the Devil. It all depends on what you look at, and on what eyes you have to see; which is the other point, that our sin blinds us to the truth present in the world around us, leaving us unable to see God’s revelation of himself. As John Calvin, the great Reformer, put it, we need the lenses of the gospel to enable us to see the truth of God.

A: In other words, without the Bible, the rest of the world is worthless for trying to understand God.

R: I don’t know if I’d say “worthless”; but between the effects of sin on the world we see and the effects of sin on us, I’d say that we cannot come to anything really close to a true picture without the Bible. Just look, after all, at all the different cultures that have existed in this world, and how different all their pictures of reality have been.

A: And how different mine is from yours, you are carefully not saying. Which supports either your case or mine, of course. But I have a question: aren’t you putting too much weight on what is, in the end, still a book written by human beings?

R: I don’t think so, for two reasons. One, I believe the Holy Spirit inspired the Bible. I believe he inspired every part of it, working with the minds of its human authors and guiding the writing process so that the texts carry the meaning God intended. I also believe that he guided the church in setting the canon, so that the books we have are the books he inspired. As a consequence, I believe the Bible is a completely faithful and true witness and without error on its own terms.

A: What do you mean, “without error on its own terms”?

R: I mean that I affirm the Bible as without error, when it is properly understood. To take the most obvious case, I affirm Genesis 1-2 as a biblical text without error.

A: So you believe the earth was created in a calendar week a little over 4000 years ago?

R: No, I don’t, because I don’t believe that interpretation is a proper one of that text. People have reached that conclusion because they insist on reading Genesis 1-2 as a scientific text—they take the words to mean what they would mean had they been written by someone writing today. But it’s a liturgical text, not a scientific text, and it doesn’t share our modern preoccupations; we need to understand it in light of its own concerns.

A: What about the inconsistencies in the gospels?

R: I affirm the gospels as true reports of events, again on their own terms, and so I would say of all the histories in the Bible. We do need to understand, though, that the biblical writers didn’t have our standards for writing history, and again that they didn’t share our modernist concerns in these matters; to assume that if they were writing history they must have done it the way we would do it is anachronistic, and quite frankly rather arrogant. So take, for example, the cleansing of the temple. John places that very early in Jesus’ ministry—it comes in chapter 2—while the other three gospels set the story at the end of his ministry, in the week before his crucifixion. If both are telling of the same event, which seems likely, then it seems we have a problem. The question is, though, would the biblical authors have thought so? Setting events down in chronological order doesn’t seem to have been as great a concern for them as it is for us; we even have a bit from an early Christian writer named Papias who tells us that Mark in his gospel wrote down what he heard from Peter, but not in order—and that doesn’t appear to have been a problem to him.

More generally, I tend to follow a critical principle I learned from Coleridge, who wrote something to this effect in one of his critical works: when I meet with an apparent error in a good author, I begin with the assumption that the error is not in the author but in me. After all, these authors were far, far closer than we are to the events about which they were writing, and they knew much more certainly than we do what they were trying to do; it seems to me that to take our limited knowledge of the former and our assumptions and conclusions about the latter and use those to declare that the biblical authors were in error—well, that we should attempt to do anything of the sort only with great humility. It’s a sure thing that more than a few historical details declared false by modern biblical scholars were later proved true by modern archaeology.

A: Such as?

R: The existence of the Hittites comes to mind. The point is, assuming that a biblical author doesn’t know what he’s talking about is, as it is for any author, a problematic assumption; and sometimes, at least, it’s a way of avoiding having to ask whether or not one actually understands what the author is trying to say. In any case, I believe that the Spirit of God inspired the texts, and that he watched over their transmission as well; errors have crept in, to be sure, but nothing has threatened the central meaning of the biblical text.

A: That’s a bold claim.

R: That’s not a claim, it’s a statement of fact. There are a lot of places in the Old and New Testaments where the reading of the text is disputed, and some of them are of significance in one theological dispute or another; but not one of them threatens any of the central doctrines of the historic Christian faith.

A: If God were really preserving the text, wouldn’t he have kept it free from any errors at all?

R: You could argue that, and certainly it would have been a remarkable testimony if he had; but it’s a tricky thing to argue on the basis of what God would have done or not done, because he’s really not that predictable. Let’s just say that it doesn’t challenge my faith any to find variant readings in Scripture.

In any case, the work of the Holy Spirit in inspiring the text is one major reason that I don’t think I’m putting too much weight on it. The other is that it isn’t the words themselves as such that are my authority, but the Spirit of God speaking through the biblical text. The Bible is a trustworthy record of what God has said and done, it testifies to and preserves God’s revelation of himself, and as such it is objectively his word to us; but it is only as the Spirit illumines our minds and hearts to understand it and respond to it, only as the Spirit speaks through the text, that it becomes the word of God to us in our own experience.

A: Do you believe the Spirit speaks to people in other ways?

R: Yes, I do; but I believe that the Devil speaks to people, too, and that we are more than capable of deluding ourselves. That’s why John says in 1 John 4 that we need to test every spirit, because no spirit that does not confess that Jesus Christ was God incarnate can be from God. That’s why the Scriptures are key, because we know the Spirit inspired them and speaks through them; they are our sure and certain guide, the lamp that lights our way. I believe that many writers throughout the ages have written true and wise things, and the Spirit does speak to us through their writings, but we must always test these writings against the Bible. I believe the Spirit speaks to us through the people around us, and sometimes directly in one way or another; but again, we must always test what we hear against the Scriptures, which we know are from God.

A: You make it sound easy.

R: Sometimes it is, but of course not always. And to be sure, there are many disagreements over what the Bible teaches; many in the church would disagree with the ma­jority of my beliefs. But this is where the church as a whole comes into play. Yes, we need to test the writings of the church against the Scriptures, and yes, there are many disagreements among Christian thinkers throughout the ages; that is, after all, much of the reason why we have so many denominations.

A: You do indeed. Interpreting the Bible clearly is not as easy as it seemed you were making it sound.

R: On a lot of points, that’s true. At the same time, though, the general consensus on the acceptable range of interpretations is solid. The church very early on staked out the most basic doctrines, those which could not be compromised, and built a fence around them through the great creeds—and while those are still human doc­uments and not to be equated with Scripture, they are very important for us as we seek to understand what the Spirit is saying to us through his word. And in the years since, the arguments within the church have spurred many to write about the things of God, and in the writings of such as John Calvin, Martin Luther, John Owen, Abraham Kuyper, Karl Barth, and many others there is considerable insight and wisdom; and during the Reformation, when differences in belief brought war and the threat of war, Protestant communities in places such as Germany, the Netherlands and England wrote the great Protestant confessions so that no one would have any doubts what they were fighting and dying for. These, too, are valuable guides for us in our interpretation of Scripture.

I don’t make the mistake of setting the tradition of the church equal to Scripture, as Catholics do, but I don’t want to fall into the opposite trap, as do many Protestants, of throwing out tradition. Those who do so claim to be following Scripture alone, but in truth they are exalting not the Scripture but their own interpretation of it, and in the end their own wisdom and understanding. As a practical matter, they are moving the source of authority from the Spirit to themselves, and that is both foolish and arrogant. We need to remember always that the Spirit illumines everyone, not just us, that there are many Christians who are wiser than us, whether alive or dead, and that we need to learn what we can from them. Our theology must always be characterized by humility.

Memo to self: don’t get cocky

“Let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall.”—1 Corinthians 10:12 (ESV)The present is no guarantee of the future; the moment when we’re surest we’re standing firm is the moment we’re least likely to notice the ground eroding out from under our feet. May we always, in humility, be on guard against the temptations of the Enemy, and the worse angels of our nature, remembering that the fact that we stand now is no promise that we’ll still be standing five minutes from now.“Be careful, little eyes, what you see . . .
“Be careful, little ears, what you hear . . .
“Be careful, little feet, where you go . . .”

Surprised by respect

Bishop N. T. Wright went on The Colbert Report last night, and the results weren’t what I would have expected. Stephen Colbert (as some have complained) wasn’t at his funniest, but it seems to me that that’s because he was actually interested in having a serious discussion with Bishop Wright about his book, Surprised by Hope. It’s probably just as well, since it seemed to me the good bishop got a bit testy as it was—I’m not at all sure he would have handled an all-out Stephen Colbert assault. Taken all in all, I think it’s a pretty good discussion, with some of the trademark Colbert humor and a pretty good exposition of Bishop Wright’s understanding of the concept of heaven (which I don’t agree with, though I still appreciated the clip); seeing a little of Colbert’s serious side as a man of faith, as I think we did, was a bonus.

There’s a parable in here somewhere . . .

. . . but at the moment, it’s beyond me to know what it is. This from Neil Gaiman (who is, as my wife notes, an unabashed pagan):

I wound up strangely out of sorts today, after my journey down to Dave [McKean]’s. The toilets on many trains in the UK have ridiculously unintuitive ways to open and close doors, with mystery buttons inside the toilet to close and lock the door that are hard to find, even for the sighted. I watched a blind man head into the train toilet. He couldn’t find the door to close it, said “excuse me, can some[one] help me?” until a fat man in a suit sitting next to the toilet stopped pretending he wasn’t there and pressed the close door button for him. Then I watched the fat man hurry down the aisle and past me and back into the next compartment for all the world as if he was embarrassed by what had just happened. Soon enough there came a frantic knocking on the toilet door as, obviously, the blind man couldn’t get out (secret, randomly placed buttons would do it, but you have to find them first). And there was a carriage full of people between me and the toilet, so I waited for someone to get up, press the outside button and let him out. And nobody did. now the knocking started again, louder, and more panicked, and I looked out at a carriage filled with people who were pretending very hard they hadn’t heard, and were all now gazing intently at their books or papers. So I got up and walked down to the toilet and let the man out, and showed him back to his seat, because it’s the least I’d want if I was blind, and it’s how you treat a fellow human being, and for heaven’s sake. And then I went back to my seat, and everyone looked up at me and stared and smiled with relieved “thank god someone did that” smiles, and I sat down grumpy and puzzled and remain grumpy and puzzled about it still. I’m still trying to work out what on earth was going on there—I don’t think I did anything good or clever or nice. I just did what I would have thought anyone would do. Except a train filled with people didn’t, and in one case actively appeared to be running away in order not to. And I puzzle over, was this a carriage filled with particularly self-centred or embarrassed people, has something fundamental changed in the years I’ve been away from the UK (unlikely, and I don’t believe in lost Golden Ages), did those other people really somehow blindly fail to notice that there was a blind man trapped in the toilet…? I have no idea and I write it down because, as I said, it puzzles and irritates me, and if it ever turns up in a short story you’ll know why.

“It is not the hearers of the law who are righteous before God, but the doers of the law who will be justified. For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do what the law requires, they are a law to themselves, even though they do not have the law. They show that the work of the law is written on their hearts, while their conscience also bears witness, and their conflicting thoughts accuse or even excuse them on that day when, according to my gospel, God judges the secrets of men by Christ Jesus.”

—Romans 2:13-16 (ESV)

HT: Sara

Living life flat-out for Christ

Ray Ortlund, in a post in memory of his father, sums up the most important lesson he learned from his dad this way:

There is only one way to live: all-out, go-for-broke, risk-taking, pedal-to-the-metal, ferociously joyful and grateful enthusiasm for the Lord Jesus Christ. Halfway Christianity is the most miserable existence of all. Halfway Christians know enough to feel guilty about themselves but haven’t gone far enough to get happy in Christ. Wholehearted Christianity is very happy. How could my dad get there and stay there? He really, really knew that God loved him and had completely forgiven all his sins at the cross of Jesus. I saw dad in repentance. But he did not wring his hands and wonder what God thought of him. He believed the good news, his spirit soared and he could never do too much for his Savior.

Amen.

Firefly, Tolkien, and narrative theology

The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, ’twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we’re made.

J. R. R. Tolkien, from “Mythopoeia”It has been my custom, while using my rowing machine, to watch episodes of Homicide: Life on the Street, which I consider one of the two greatest television shows I’ve ever seen. (I don’t believe TV as a medium has produced much true art, or many truly great stories, but I do believe both are possible.) Lately, however, I’ve been watching other things while I row, and this week, I started in on the other greatest series I’ve ever seen: Firefly. It’s the first time I’ve watched any of the episodes since the movie came out; what Joss Whedon did with the movie hit me too hard. That’s also why I haven’t posted about being a Browncoat, or linked to fan sites like “Whoa. Good Myth.” Rather like being a Mariners fan these days, it’s just been easier not to stress about it too much.Now, this might seem like an odd and pointless thing to get worked up about—so a TV show was canceled after fourteen episodes—so what? It’s still a TV show, after all. So Fox handled it badly, gave the show no real chance, and canceled it unfairly soon; is it really that big a deal? Well, it was that big a deal for all the folks who worked on the show, for one thing. Beyond that, we all have our reasons, and I’m sure mine aren’t the same as everyone else’s; but for me, it’s the story, or rather, the stories, which were untimely cut off, and the lives of the characters in those stories. Whedon, Tim Minear, and their crew of writers had a great world and a great set of characters and stories going, both enjoyable and deep; to have that brought to an untimely end is a great loss.That’s why I rejoiced when the movie deal went forward; which meant that what Whedon did with Serenity really hit me hard. I think he put his own ideas of what is artistic ahead of what was best for his creation—not only the story and the characters, but also the communities he had created, most importantly the actors, writers, and crew, and also all of us who call ourselves Browncoats. Tolkien speaks of us as sub-creators, people who create what he calls “Secondary Worlds,” creations which are real within their own laws, to the best of our ability to make them real; we create in reflection (or, perhaps better, as refractions) of the great Creator who made us, because we were made like him. The desire to be gods ourselves may have been what led us into sin, but it was not perhaps a wholly wrong one, properly channeled—for when we create, we are in a sense small gods to our creation. If we take Tolkien’s point of view, however (as I believe we should), this has a significant implication for our creative activity: we have the responsibility to be, as best as we can, good gods to our creation. Our work has to be primarily about what is best for this thing we are making, whatever it might be, not merely about what’s best for us or what we want to do. On my read, from the things he’s said, Joss Whedon violated that with Firefly/Serenity; he was a bad god to his creation.Still, though, you might say: does this matter? Wasn’t it, after all, still just a TV show? Yes, of course it was a TV show, but no, it wasn’t just a TV show. Nothing is ever just anything—especially not people; and thus, especially not stories, to the extent that they’re true stories about people. By that I don’t necessarily mean factual; there are biographies and histories which are factual but aren’t really true, because they miss the heart of the matter, while many historical fictions, though they depart from the facts, are far truer because they give us real understanding of people and events. Indeed, many novels about things that never happened and people who never lived are nevertheless true stories in that they broaden our awareness of ourselves and of others, open our eyes and minds to things we have not before seen or realized, and deepen our knowledge of what it means to be human.Stories are powerful things. It’s one thing to express an opinion, or to set forth a proposition about how the world works; it’s quite another thing to bring that opinion or proposition to life in a story. People who might reject, or at least argue with, your position if it were plainly stated may find themselves influenced by it, if your story is powerful enough and sufficiently well-crafted; and those who wouldn’t understand it intellectually in a propositional form may well get it intuitively and affectively if you bring it to life in a story. That’s what stories do with our ideas: they bring them to life, incarnating them in the lives of the characters we create, making them not merely intellectual realities, but human realities.This is one reason why the greatest of all Christian theologians is not Paul, but Jesus himself. (There are others, of course, such as the fact that Jesus was original, while Paul was derivative of Jesus.) This is something too often missed, as Dr. Kenneth Bailey points out (and as Jared Wilson has also said, though his emphasis is a little different), because we tend to see Jesus as a nice moral teacher telling quaint stories; we don’t really believe that those stories can be theologically profound and powerful. In fact, though, they can, and they are; the more overtly “theological” works in the New Testament, profound as they are, are simply developments, explications, and applications in propositional form of the truths already communicated incarnationally through the parables of Jesus, and also through the broader narratives of the Gospels, Acts, and the Old Testament. God doesn’t give us a three-point outline, he gives us a story—from which to learn, and in which to live.Of course, it’s possible to take this too far; there are those who would overbalance the other way, exalting the biblical narratives to the extent of diminishing or even discounting the NT epistles (and other non-narrative portions of the Bible—but the epistles, and particularly Paul, usually seem to be the main target). That’s not right either. What we need to remember is that the epistles, though not themselves narrative texts, are nevertheless part of a narrative; their context is a story. They were written for particular reasons to particular human beings in particular situations dealing with particular things, even if we don’t know all those particularities (in some cases, we have a pretty good idea; in others, we can only speculate); and when we read them, we read them in the middle of our own story as God speaking to us in our particular situations and issues. We need to understand them accordingly—and we need to understand that that fact is the reason why they matter.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.