Random thought re: M. Night Shyamalan

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The latest issue of Touchstone arrived today; I’m currently partway through Russell Moore’s excellent article “The Gospel’s Bigger Idea: You Can’t Tell the Story of Jesus Without Jesus,” which I would link to if it were only available online. (I may very well post on it later anyway.)At the moment, though, my brain is off on a tangent. Dean Moore notes in his piece that he’s never seen the movie The Sixth Sense, in part because a friend told him about the “twist” ending, which he assumes means the movie is now ruined for him.

If I saw the movie now, I would see the same film everyone else saw at its release, but I would be seeing it with the mystery decoded. I would see where the story was going.

This is true, but I don’t think it ruins the movie. I watch very few films, but I have seen that one, at the urging of a couple good friends of ours; I watched the whole thing, appreciating some aspects of it and very much not appreciating others, and waiting for the twist ending—and when it came, was very surprised to find myself not surprised, because the “twist” was something I had understood from the beginning of the movie. I was interested to be told afterward (was it in the extras on the DVD? I don’t recall) that M. Night Shyamalan had actually not expected it to be a twist for the audience—it was a revelation for the protagonist, of course, but he assumed the audience would understand the situation. His indirect exposition at the beginning proved to be rather too indirect for most people to catch, however, and so the film ended up a different experience for audiences than he had expected.This is, I think, unfortunate, for two reasons. One is that people watched the movie less as a character study—which was the aspect that I really liked; Bruce Willis did a terrific job with a fascinating role—and more as a horror thriller. That probably helped Shyamalan at the box office, but I think it weakened the effect of his work. To put it in terms of this post, this focused people more on the mystery in the story (“What’s the twist going to be?”) and less on the mystery of the story: who are these two characters, what are they about, and what is the real meaning of what’s going on?The other is that it established Shyamalan as a sort of O. Henry of the theater, with a hefty dollop of Poe or Lovecraft: a guy who made creepily atmospheric films that set you up for a great twist ending. Again, that was great for him in the short run, and most people agree that Unbreakable was a major accomplishment as well; but trying to live up to that has been an increasing burden on him, and one that seems to be ruining him as a writer and director. His greatest break, the jolt of surprise that (with an assist from The Blair Witch Project) made a megahit of The Sixth Sense, may ironically be the thing that breaks him. It’s too bad; he’s a gifted storyteller, if he’d just stuck to telling real stories instead of artificial ones.

No half measures

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HT: U.S.S. MarinerIn bringing the 777 to production, Boeing took the pursuit of perfection to its logical extreme: to make sure the wings were as strong, and as capable of enduring severe weather, as the design team wanted them to be, the company built an entire airplane (just the structure, not the interior equipment) just to break it, and then they took that plane and bent the wings until they snapped. The hope was that the wing would withstand at least 150% of the stress it would ever have to endure in the air; it did, breaking at 154%.There is, I think, a lesson here for the church—and no, it’s not “stress your volunteers until they break,” which too many churches already do. Boeing didn’t break people, they broke stuff; the church should always be able to tell the difference (which means, among other things, that we really shouldn’t get into the world’s habit of referring to people as “resources” and “assets,” because those are stuff words). Specifically, Boeing put the mission ahead of the stuff, and if they needed to break stuff to get the mission done right—to be sure they’d built a plane that was at least as good as they wanted it to be—they went ahead and broke the stuff. Indeed, they built it for the express purpose of being broken, just so they could be sure.The American church, I think, could stand to profit from their example. We have our mission statement direct from the mouth of God:

Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

We need to make sure that that mission—which is completely antithetical, be it noted, to using up and burning out the people we already have in an effort to attract more people—is the driving motivation behind everything we do, to the point that nothing else is allowed to hold us back. If concern for those outside the church means that some of our stuff gets broken, then so be it. (Indeed, if concern for those inside the church means that we focus more on feeding and discipling them than on prodding them to contribute to the building fund, then praise God.) Certainly, we should be good stewards of the things we have; we should invest the time and money to take care of whatever buildings we own or use, and to do everything to the best of our ability to the glory of God. But we don’t exist to have an attractive building—or, for that matter, a large building—or to have great music, or to have a well-produced worship service, or to have lots of programs. We exist to make disciples of Jesus Christ, including each other, and all those other things exist to support that mission. If that means allowing some disorder and some breakage, we need to be willing to let that happen; if it means not having the big building and the big budget, we need to embrace that. We can’t be about the stuff; we need to be about making disciples—all about making disciples, nothing held back—and let the stuff fall where it will.

Educational Alzheimer’s

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When individuals lose their memory to Alzheimer’s or another form of dementia, we universally recognize this as a tragedy, and so we pour large amounts of money into research to identify the causes and work toward developing a cure. But when the nation loses its collective memory? As any lover of history knows, that’s what’s happening year by year. The great historian David McCullough put it this way thirteen years ago in his National Book Award acceptance speech:

We, in our time, are raising a new generation of Americans who, to an alarming degree, are historically illiterate.The situation is serious and sad. And it is quite real, let there be no mistake. It has been coming on for a long time, like a creeping disease, eating away at the national memory. While the clamorous popular culture races on, the American past is slipping away, out of site and out of mind. We are losing our story, forgetting who we are and what it’s taken to come this far. . . .The decided majority, some 60 percent, of the nation’s high school seniors haven’t even the most basic understanding of American history. . . .On a winter morning on the campus of one of our finest colleges, in a lively Ivy League setting with the snow falling outside the window, I sat with a seminar of some twenty-five students, all seniors majoring in history, all honors students—the cream of the crop. “How many of you know who George Marshall was?” I asked. None. Not one.At a large university in the Midwest, a young woman told me how glad she was to have attended my lecture, because until then, she explained, she had never realized that the original thirteen colonies were all on the eastern seaboard.

As Brian Ward of Fraters Libertas notes, the situation hasn’t improved in thirteen years, either.

The liberal news site MinnPost celebrates this glimpse into the state of public education in Minneapolis:When asked what historical figure they’d most like to study this year, an astounding 22 of the 35 students in Ms. Ellingham’s eighth-grade history class at Susan B. Anthony middle school in Minneapolis answered, “Yoko Ono” and/or “John Lennon.”I weep for the future. The great historian David McCullough was on C-SPAN this past week, looking like a beaten man while describing the crushing level of historical ignorance among America’s youth. He summed up with the warning that one can never love a country one doesn’t know. It sounded like an epitaph.

A lot of people will look at this and blame it on history being boring—a perception which I’ve never understood, since history is the human story, the summation of all the interesting (and not-so-interesting) things that have ever happened; sure, it’s boring if badly taught, but so is anything else. The real problem, I think, is ideological: the teaching of history, and especially American history, just isn’t valued by the elites who controle public education, because too many among them don’t especially value the country which that history has produced. Like Barack Obama, their chosen candidate, their conception of the good of America is primarily forward-looking—it’s about the changes they want to make and the good they believe they can create; they don’t want to learn from history, they want to be free of it. Thus John Hinderaker writes,

My youngest daughter started middle school this year. After around a month of classes, as far as I can tell the curriculum consists largely of propaganda about recycling. My high school age daughter told me tonight that in Spanish class she has been taught to say “global warming,” “acid rain” and “greenhouse effect” in Spanish. . . .The schools can teach anything if they care about it. The problem is that they don’t care about teaching history, least of all American history. Public education is agenda-driven, and American history—the facts of American history—is not on the agenda.

The problem is, we cannot get free of history—not as long as human beings are still sinful; the attempt to do so only leaves us blind to what others may do. The study of history is in large part a way of learning from the mistakes (and the insights!) of others so that we don’t have to reinvent them all ourselves. This is why the philosopher George Santayana was right to declare that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it; it’s also why progressives who try to evade this truth by dismissing it as a truism are self-defeating, because any true progress requires escaping the historical loop, which requires learning the lessons of history and taking them seriously. True progress must be founded on a chastened realism about human behavior, not on utopian optimism about human potential.The nub of the matter here is that the command of the Delphic oracle is still essential to any human wisdom: “Know thyself”—and our ability to do so rests on our memory, because to a great extent, as I’ve said before, memory is identity. We cannot know ourselves if we’ve forgotten who we are, what we’ve done and why we’ve done it and whom we did it for (or to, or against)—and this is no less true of us as a nation than it is of us as individuals. We cannot understand who we are and why we do things the way we do if we don’t understand how we got here; and as a consequence, we may well throw away treasures because we don’t know enough to see their value.The last word on this really should belong to David McCullough, of whom I am a great and fervent admirer, who put it beautifully in his 1995 acceptance speech (which is well worth reading in its entirety):

History shows us how to behave. History teaches, reinforces what we believe in, what we stand for, and what we ought to be willing to stand up for. History is—or should be—the bedrock of patriotism, not the chest-pounding kind of patriotism but the real thing, love of country.At their core, the lessons of history are largely lessons in appreciation. Everything we have, all our great institutions, hospitals, universities, libraries, this city, our laws, our music, art, poetry, our freedoms, everything is because somebody went before us and did the hard work, provided the creative energy, provided the money, provided the belief. Do we disregard that?Indifference to history isn’t just ignorant, it’s rude. It’s a form of ingratitude.I’m convinced that history encourages, as nothing else does, a sense of proportion about life, gives us a sense of the relative scale of our own brief time on earth and how valuable that is.What history teaches it teaches mainly by example. It inspires courage and tolerance. It encourages a sense of humor. It is an aid to navigation in perilous times. We are living now in an era of momentous change, of huge transitions in all aspects of life-here, nationwide, worldwide-and this creates great pressures and tensions. But history shows that times of change are the times when we are most likely to learn. This nation was founded on change. We should embrace the possibilities in these exciting times and hold to a steady course, because we have a sense of navigation, a sense of what we’ve been through in times past and who we are.

The crowning irony of a strange campaign

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Paul Hinderaker of Power Line has brilliantly captured something I’ve been thinking about but hadn’t quite put together like this:

If it turns out to be the financial crisis that puts Barack Obama over the top in his quest for the White House, the irony will be difficult to overstate. First, the biggest driver of the financial crisis was not any conservative policy such as the kind of deregulation John McCain supports. Rather, as Diana West argues, the biggest driver was the “race-based social engineering” that “virtually created the sub-prime mortgage industry.” The implosion of that industry, in turn, triggered the present crisis.The operative vision, then, was leftist and racialist, not free-market. As West puts it, the social engineers decided that not “enough” minorities had homes because not “enough” minorities were eligible for mortgages. The solution was to junk the bottom-line, non-racial markers of mortgage eligibility traditionally used by banks to distinguish between good and bad credit risks—steady employment, clean credit, and a down payment. Obama, then, is the beneficiary of the terrible failure of affirmative action style policies in the mortgage banking sector.But the irony extends further. For it turns out that intimidating banks into making bad loans to minorities was a major activity of “community organizations” during the 1990s. And, according to Stanley Kurtz, Obama himself trained and funded ACORN activists who engaged in such intimidation.Using a combination of intimidation and white guilt to plunge the banking industry into the crisis that brings a radical activist to power—even Saul Alinsky couldn’t have drawn it up this well.

“A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.”

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So said Willy Wonka, anyway (though I’m not sure if he said it in the book or only in the movie). Anyway, for some random reason I looked up this site that a friend of ours back in Bellingham introduced us to almost a decade ago, and was surprised to find it not only still up, but updated. (I suppose I shouldn’t have been.) It’s by no means deep, but it’s amusing for a little while, if your sense of humor tends toward the goofy. If it does, and you want a grin or two, you might want to go check out Dancing Paul.

The order of decrees

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For those who aren’t theology wonks, “the order of decrees” is a theological catchphrase dealing with a disagreement among Calvinist theologians. The phrase relates to the order in which God decided to decree, or determine, certain things; the dispute relates to the question of whether God decided to create people, then decided to permit the fall into sin, and then set the plan of salvation in motion, or whether he decided to create human beings in order to save some and not others. (That’s a very rough sketch of the difference between the positions, and not really fair to either of them, but I think it’s the best way to capture their difference for those who aren’t familiar with this discussion. If you are, my apologies, and I’ll be happy to have a serious conversation on the subject with you at some other point. If you aren’t but would like to be, go read the chapter for Boettner linked above.)It seems to me, though, that this is a concept and a question which is of value beyond simply the Reformed understanding of the Christian doctrine of salvation by grace. In particular, I think this is valuable in evaluating our political positions and our political philosophy if we apply it to ourselves: what is our own “order of decrees” with regard to the positions we choose to take and defend?What got me thinking about this was Chris Matthews (he of the tingly leg), and specifically his comparison of the first presidential debate and the VP debate: as Mary Katherine Ham pointed out, he argued that the Democrat won both—for mutually contradictory reasons. Had he been consistent, he would have had to score one of them as a win for the GOP ticket; so he scrapped consistency for the sake of ideology.Now, Matthews’ performance here is easy to mock, as a particularly blatant (and particularly ludicrous) example of bias trumping logic; but it’s also, I think, a valuable pointer to an approach to politics that we see all over the place. To borrow the “order of decrees” language, his decree of support for the Democratic Party and its candidates is prior to all his other decrees in this instance, and controls them. Therefore, his chain of reasoning and consequent analysis of the situation in front of him (the debates, in this case) is not independent, but is dictated by his a priori commitment to do what is best for the Democratic candidate; what matters is not that what he says is logically coherent or represents a rationally consistent position, but that it serves his agenda.As I say, though this is an especially obvious and risible example, I believe it’s something most of us do: we put our decree of which side we’re on ahead of our evaluations of people, positions, and situations. Rather than putting our governing principles first and trying to reason independently from them in each instance to determine what we think of this candidate or that, of this position or that, of this bill or that (and, yes, of this debate or that), we have the tendency to decide who we’re rooting for and who we’re rooting against and let that shape, or even determine, what we think about all those other matters. Chris Matthews did it in his debate analysis. More than a few people on both sides of the political aisle have done it with respect to Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin—we’ve seen some of the arguments over Sen. Clinton reprised over Gov. Palin, only with the sides switched. Scads and scads of folks did it over the Paulson plan, because they’d already decided they were against “Wall Street fat cats.” It’s certainly a faster and more efficient way to come to conclusions, because it cuts out the need for all that time-consuming thought; that’s an especially strong temptation given the speed with which our world moves these days. What it isn’t, however, is a good way to build politics with integrity—or indeed, to build integrity in any area of life.

Missing the mystery

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Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church, of which I became a minister according to the stewardship from God that was given to me for you, to make the word of God fully known, the mystery hidden for ages and generations but now revealed to his saints. To them God chose to make known how great among the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. Him we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone mature in Christ. For this I toil, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me.

For I want you to know how great a struggle I have for you and for those at Laodicea and for all who have not seen me face to face, that their hearts may be encouraged, being knit together in love, to reach all the riches of full assurance of understanding and the knowledge of God’s mystery, which is Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. I say this in order that no one may delude you with plausible arguments. For though I am absent in body, yet I am with you in spirit, rejoicing to see your good order and the firmness of your faith in Christ.

—Colossians 1:24-2:5 (ESV)

I argued earlier today that we have a predisposition to belief, one which is driven in large part by the sense that, however much folks like Richard Dawkins might tell us otherwise, there is more to reality than the material and physical—that there’s more to this life than just what we can see and hear and manipulate. I believe everyone feels the pull of this, though some people do their level best to stuff it down where it won’t bother them; even then, though, you can often still see its effects (even in folks like Dr. Dawkins). This, it seems to me, is one of the points of entry for the church in an age like ours.

Unfortunately, this isn’t all that common an approach in the American church. If we look at churches around this country, we see a lot of them that are so determined to be relevant and with it and cool that they’ve adopted a strategy of giving the world what it already knows it wants; they mimic its sounds, its approaches, its strategies, in an effort to address the needs it’s already aware of and already understands. Thus we get worship services where a playlist right out of the Top 40 leads into sermons about how if Jesus is your CEO, you can follow these three surefire principles to prepare your children to lead successful lives. The music and the principles may be fine as far as they go—but they don’t go far enough, because they don’t go any farther than the world goes. They don’t even acknowledge the mystery, let alone aim for it; they leave that need unaddressed and unfilled.

I don’t know if this was the problem with the Colossian church, but from some of the things Paul says, it sounds like it might have been. Certainly, their understanding of Christ seems to have been pretty shallow—and as a consequence, though they’d been given the riches of the glory of the knowledge of God’s mystery, though they’d been given the keys to the treasury of heaven itself, they didn’t know it. They didn’t understand what they’d been given, and so they went chasing off after other things. They went a different direction than most of our churches today, off into a weird esoteric form of legalism instead of into the therapeutic moralistic legalism that’s the big attraction these days, but they had the same root problem: they didn’t really know and appreciate Jesus, and so they thought they needed something else. They’d missed the mystery, passed it up for a handful of flashy trinkets.

This is why Paul says that he struggles that the Colossians, and the other Christians of the Lycus Valley, “may be encouraged . . . to reach all the riches of the full understanding of the knowledge of the mystery of God, which is Christ.” Indeed, he expresses this desire for all those who haven’t seen him face to face, for this is his hope for all the church—not just for the people to whom he initially wrote this letter, but for everyone who reads it across the length and breadth of the people of God. The world tries to keep us from that, either by leading us off down the rabbit trail to chase illusions, as the Colossians did, or by keeping us so focused on the practical things of life that we forget our sense of mystery, that we forget there’s anything more to life than just getting through it. Paul calls us away from both mistakes; he calls us to remember that there is more to this life, and to dive into the mystery of God, to seek the glory of the knowledge of God in the face of Christ.

Thought on belief

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If we stopped to count e-mail forwards, I wonder how many we’d come up with, and what we might learn by developing a taxonomy of them. It’s work that’s been partly done by sites like Snopes and TruthOrFiction.com, of course, but their concern is practical, aimed at helping people recognize bogus stories, not that of the researcher.

In an academic way, it’s remarkable just how many phony stories are being circulated out there as true. You might, for instance, have seen the e-mail blasting Target as a French company that’s opposed to veterans; I’ll admit that my dad likes to refer to Target as “Tarjet, the French store,” but that’s the only thing French about them (they’re headquartered in Minneapolis). They may have chosen to focus their corporate grant-giving on educational and arts projects, but that doesn’t make them anti-veteran. You might also remember the one about Procter & Gamble being a front for the Church of Satan—supposedly, the CEO went on a talk show and boasted about it, and pointed out the “666” hidden in the beard on the company’s logo. This one, it turns out, was started by a regional Amway distributor, and has been around long enough that older versions had this mythical executive making his confession to Phil Donahue and Johnny Carson.

Do you ever wonder why these things get around so well? They spread across the electronic landscape like kudzu, after all—there has to be a reason. Or maybe several, since we human beings tend not to do things simply, or for simple reasons. I don’t claim to know all of them, but I think I can name the big one: we’re wired to believe.

This isn’t to say that we’re wired to hold any particular belief—I think we were, originally, but our fall into sin broke that—but it is to say that when confronted with a proposition, with someone declaring something to be true, our deepest natural reflex is to believe it. We are innately credulous. That’s why Internet rumors spread the way they do: many, perhaps most, people grant them the presumption of belief, assuming them to be credible simply because they exist. It’s why the “big lie” propaganda strategy works, because it’s hard for us to credit that anyone actually would tell a lie that big, even when rationally we know that such things happen. And it’s why, as you might have seen in the news lately, research has shown that atheists are significantly more likely than religious folk to believe in UFOs, ESP, and paranormal phenomena; having thrown out religion doesn’t leave them able truly to believe in nothing. Thus the great Christian writer G. K. Chesterton said,

It’s the first effect of not believing in God that you lose your common sense, and can’t see things as they are.

Or, as another line attributed to Chesterton has it,

When a man ceases to believe in God, he does not believe in nothing. He believes in everything.

Now, obviously we don’t believe everything we hear (or at least, most people don’t); we learn fairly early that we can’t, because that would require us to believe many things which are mutually contradictory. Further, as we come to believe in certain things, that rules out believing in others. Over the course of life, we evolve a set of criteria for determining what things we believe and what things we don’t; we develop filters to strain out the things which don’t make sense, or don’t fit with what we believe, or contradict things which we know to be true. And yet, despite all this, we still have the predisposition, the reflex, to believe what people tell us. I spent most of a year working in inner-city ministry, right along the north side of one of the most blighted urban slums in the developed world, and in that time I had people lie to me and try to con me in more ways than I would have imagined possible. It was an education. And yet, when I had someone come up to me one rainy night outside our favorite restaurant and ask for money because he’d run out of gas, I gave him a toonie (a two-dollar coin, for those unfamiliar with Canadian money); I didn’t realize I’d been conned until the next week when I saw the guy referenced by one of the local columnists. I should have known better; but I was predisposed to believe his story.

The most basic reason for this is that God created us to believe him. Obviously, that was bent when we chose to turn away from God into disobedience, but it’s still there; and I think there’s something about living in our fallen world that reinforces it. It shows up in a lot of ways. Some are fairly unflattering, like the desire to know something that most people don’t—we like feeling special, like we’re smarter than the average Joe—while others are more noble, like the desire to understand the world. Behind them all, if we look, I think we can see a common root: this sense that everybody has, though some pay attention to it and some don’t, that there’s more to this life than what we can see. We can study how this world works in a lot of ways, through sciences like physics or social sciences like economics, or through disciplines in the humanities like history or literature, but there’s always more to understand than we can get to, and always a deeper truth that we can’t quite reach on our own. It’s the sense that there’s a mystery at the heart of life, one that we can’t understand without a deeper wisdom than this world has to give us; we need something better to believe in than money can buy, or power can win, or pleasure can produce.

 

The Mystery of God

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(Proverbs 2:1-11; Colossians 1:24-2:5)

How many of y’all use e-mail regularly? How many of you regularly get e-mail forwards? How many of you send those on to other folks? There are a lot of them out there; unfortunately, a lot of them are purely phony. Maybe you’ve seen the e-mail blasting Target as a French company that’s opposed to veterans; now, my dad likes to refer to Target as “Target, the French store,” but that’s the only thing French about them—they’re headquartered in Minneapolis. To be sure, they’ve chosen to focus their corporate grant-giving on educational and arts projects, but that doesn’t make them anti-veteran. Or perhaps you’ve run across the one about Proctor & Gamble being a front for the Church of Satan? Supposedly the CEO went on Oprah and confessed it, and pointed out the “666” hidden in their corporate logo. Turns out, though, that rumor was invented by a regional distributor for Amway—long enough ago, in fact, that in older versions of the story, the confession occurred on Donahue.

Do you ever wonder why these things get around so well? They spread across the electronic landscape like kudzu, after all—there has to be a reason. Or maybe several, since we human beings tend not to do things simply, or for simple reasons. I don’t claim to know all of them, but I think I can name the big one: we’re wired to believe. That’s just the way we’re made. This isn’t to say that we’re wired to hold any particular belief—I think we were, originally, but our fall into sin broke that—but it is to say that when confronted with a proposition, with someone declaring something to be true, our deepest natural reflex is to believe it. We are innately credulous. That’s why Internet rumors spread the way they do: many, perhaps most, people grant them the presumption of belief, assuming them to be credible simply because they exist. It’s why Adolf Hitler’s “big lie” propaganda strategy worked, because it’s hard for us to credit that anyone actually could tell a lie that big, even when rationally we know that such things happen. And it’s why, as you might have seen in the news lately, research has shown that atheists are far more likely than religious folk to believe in UFOs, ESP, and paranormal phenomena; having thrown out religion, they have to find something else to believe in. Thus the line attributed to the great Christian writer G. K. Chesterton, “When a man ceases to believe in God, he does not believe in nothing. He believes in everything.”

Now, obviously we don’t believe everything we hear (or at least, most people don’t); we learn fairly early that we can’t, because that would require us to believe many things which are mutually contradictory. Further, as we come to believe in certain things, that rules out believing in others. Over the course of life, we evolve a set of criteria for determining what things we believe and what things we don’t; we develop filters to strain out the things which don’t make sense, or don’t fit with what we believe, or contradict things which we know to be true. And yet, despite all this, we still have the predisposition, the reflex, to believe what people tell us. I spent most of a year working in inner-city ministry, right along the north side of one of the most blighted urban slums in the developed world, and in that time I had people lie to me and try to con me in more ways than I would have imagined possible. It was an education. And yet, when I had someone come up to me one rainy night outside our favorite restaurant and ask for money because he’d run out of gas, I gave him a toonie—a two-dollar coin—and didn’t realize I’d been conned until the next week when I saw the guy referenced by one of the local columnists. I should have known better; but I was predisposed to believe his story.

The most basic reason for this, I’m sure, is that God created us to believe him. Obviously, that was bent when we chose to turn away from God into disobedience, but it’s still there; and I think there’s something about living in our fallen world that reinforces it. It shows up in a lot of ways. Some are fairly unflattering, like the desire to know something that most people don’t—we like feeling special, like we’re smarter than the average Joe—while others are more noble, like the desire to understand the world. Behind them all, if we look, I think we can see a common root: this sense that everybody has, though some pay attention to it and some don’t, that there’s more to this life than what we can see. We can study how this world works in a lot of ways, through sciences like physics or social sciences like economics, or through disciplines in the humanities like history or literature, but there’s always more to understand than we can get to, and always a deeper truth that we can’t quite reach on our own. It’s the sense that there’s a mystery at the heart of life, one that we can’t understand without a deeper wisdom than this world has to give us; we need something better to believe in than money can buy, or power can win, or pleasure can produce.

Unfortunately, if we look at churches around this country, we see a lot of them that are so determined to be relevant and with it and cool that they’ve adopted a strategy of giving the world what it already knows it wants; they mimic its sounds, its approaches, its strategies, in an effort to address the needs it’s already aware of and already understands. Thus we get worship services where a playlist right out of the Top 40 leads into sermons about how if Jesus is your CEO, you can follow these three surefire principles to prepare your children to lead successful lives. The music and the principles may be fine as far as they go—but they don’t go far enough, because they don’t go any farther than the world goes. They don’t even acknowledge the mystery, let alone aim for it; they leave that need unaddressed and unfilled.

Was this the problem in the Colossian church? We have no way of knowing for sure, but it sounds like it might have been. Certainly, from the things Paul feels the need to say to these folks, it sounds like their understanding of Christ is pretty shallow—and as a consequence, though they’ve been given the riches of the glory of the knowledge of God’s mystery, though they’ve been given the keys to the treasury of heaven itself, they don’t know it. They don’t understand what they’ve been given, and so they still feel the need for something more; as a result, they’re vulnerable to these teachers who’ve come along and promised them a new and greater wisdom, a new and greater experience of God, and a new and greater insight into his mystery. They don’t understand what Paul understands, that the supposed wisdom of those teachers is in fact false, a counterfeit, that serves only to draw them away from God.

This is why Paul says that he struggles that the Colossians, and the other Christians of the Lycus Valley, “may be encouraged . . . to reach all the riches of the full understanding of the knowledge of the mystery of God, which is Christ.” Indeed, he expresses this desire for all those who haven’t seen him face to face, for this is his hope for all the church—not just for the people to whom he initially wrote this letter, but for all of us who read it across the length and breadth of the people of God. The world tries to keep us from that, either by leading us off down the rabbit trail to chase illusions, as the Colossians did, or by keeping us so focused on the practical things of life that we forget our sense of mystery, that we forget there’s anything more to life than just getting through it. Paul calls us away from both mistakes; he calls us to remember that there is more to this life, and to dive into the mystery of God, to seek the glory of the knowledge of God in the face of Christ.

His desire is that we will learn that there is a deeper wisdom than this world can offer, and a deeper meaning to life than it knows of, and that both are found in Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge, to be revealed only to those who seek him. If we would pursue understanding, if we want to live wisely, if we desire to see ourselves and others clearly and truly, we must look to Jesus, for we will only find what we desire in him. There is no better way, there is no other option, there is nothing more that needs to be said or done; Christ alone is wisdom and righteousness and sanctification and redemption, as Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 1:30. That is the mystery of God: that such a thing is possible; that God would actually become human, to live with us and die for us, and then to rise again to set us free; that the gap between us and God has been bridged—from God’s side!—and we don’t have to earn our way into his presence, for we are freely invited there by his grace. This is the mystery we celebrate at this table, the mystery the world calls foolishness that is in truth the root of all wisdom.