Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Three Great Books
1) Planet Narnia (Michael Ward). Ward argues that the seven books of the Narniad follow the seven planets of Medieval astromony--or, rather, that the character and flavor and atmosphere of each is drawn from the constellation of associations which Medieval poets attributed with each planet. Ward points out how no-one else has been able to discern any sort of organizing structure to the seven books, or even why there should be seven--one just seems to follow another. (You can't map them onto the life of Christ, for instance.)Lewis was enamored with the sort of symbolism involved in this Medieval theme, and Ward decisively demonstrates that each planet guided his writing of each of the Chronicles. Ward mostly argues this by finding connections between a poem Lewis wrote about the planets and the language and imagery and plot of each of the Chronicles (the descent of the planetary angels in That Hideous Strength is also referenced). So, for instance, Jupiter has, for Lewis, royal connotations: we are meant to think of a king on his throne, having subdued his nation, holding a feast for his people; a calm, considered joy pervades the atmosphere of Jupiter. In Lewis' poem about the planets, he writes that Jupiter symbolizes "winter over, and debts forgiven:" and that's actually the plot of the first Narniad--winter ending, Edmund being forgiven, and the true kind of Narnia taking his throne. Prince Caspian evokes Mars as the god of war: the book is one big battle to re-claim Narnia; and constantly throughout Caspian, the language of camps and weapons and generals is used; the four children are toughened up by battle, etc.
One of the fascinating things about the book is how it opens up how Lewis' imagination worked, literarily and theologically. Ward, early in his argument, references Lewis' experience of seeing a sunbeam in a shed, and how Lewis, standing back from it, could see the sunbeam clearly--but once he stood within it, he saw something far more glorious: the sun itself, shining from millions of miles away. This was an important distinction for Lewis, which he labeled Contemplation (standing back and seeing the sunbeam) and Enjoyment (standing within the sunbeam, and losing any clear sight of it . . . but getting a glimpse of the thing causing the sunbeam). An element of knowledge is lost in enjoyment, but it is a far deeper kind of participation is gained.
The Medieval symbolism of the Chronicles is meant to be Enjoyed, in this sense: you stand within a certain atmosphere which you cannot see clearly, but, standing inside it, we are pervaded by something within which we can see something much bigger. It's a fascinating book, and really worth reading, not the least because it shows how thoughtfully Lewis wrote the Chronicles: I always thought of them as sort of slapdash, something for this Oxford prof to do on the side; but Ward references all kinds of Medieval literature to show how each image and turn of plot is carefully planned to evoke some area of created experience.
2)
A Mind of Its Own: How Your Brian Distorts and Deceives (Cordelia Fine). Fine is a social psychologist who cites study after study showing the persistent biases, unfounded assumptions, and blind spots which everyone lives with. One fascinating chapter discusses the difficulty (impossibility?) of spelling out the difference in a strict, rigorous way between the beliefs and means of reaching them shown a "normal" person and someone who is totally delusional (both groups tend to go about interpreting the world in suspiciously similarly arbitrary ways). The most striking chapter--and the one most relevant to ministry--she names "The Immoral Brain." Fine discusses how we have an instinctual and totally unfounded moral bias in our own favor, which is almost impossible to penetrate, and of which we are almost totally unaware. One study shows, for instance, that immoral behavior in others was immediately tied (by those tested) to the character of those so acting; no mitigating circumstances are considered (it just doesn't enter our heads). The thinking was, "That person did that thing because they are bad." We do the opposite for ourselves, however: every moral failure is to be assigned to surrounding circumstances, and we'll of course do better next time.Another study she cited asked a group of seminarians to speak to a group in a building a few blocks away on the Good Samaritan, telling one group they had time to prepare and (arbitrarily, just for the sake of the experiment) another group they were late to the group. The psychologists then had a man dress up as a homeless person, and directed him to groan when each seminarian walked by. Consistently, the group who were told they were late didn't stop to help. And they were going to talk about the Good Samaritan! Even more disturbing is the reaction of psychology students, after learning of the study, consistently insisted that they would have stopped and helped (statistically, this is unlikely!). Furthermore, when asked about the homeless man, the seminarians who didn't stop to help, instead of saying, "I blew it," justified their behavior by saying that the man didn't seem that needy or desperate. It wasn't a conscious lie; like the hunter who "sees" a deer and shoots another hunter, I think they really didn't hear the "beggar" groan. Our brains have a way of helping us not see our failures. Little wonder Fine concludes by saying, "The masterful hypocrisy of the immoral brain demands a certain grudging respect" in its almost foolproof way of shielding us from our own evil.
The book is eye-opening in all kinds of ways; I understood myself much better after it, and it helped to explain many of the arguments and ruptures in relationship I've either witnessed or suffered or caused. I have a hard time imagining a pastor finding it anything but deeply relevant.
3) Finally, If you want just a great story, I can't recommend enough Neil Gaiman's
Graveyard Book. It's the most delightful fable; everything pleasurable about a good story shows up in this book, but about three times stronger. There aren't moments when he hits the sweet spot--the entire story is one big sweet spot. And it has the most delicious moments of humor--not one-liners that you stop and laugh at, but a deeply and gently funny look at the characters, without in any way being condescending. Gaimain is awesome.
Friday, December 4, 2009
On Friday, Several Things . . .
. . . I want to talk about, so, as usual, I'll just be random.
1) Wind chill today is -31. Last week - literally - it was in the 40s. Go figure. I'm already thinking about summer - and when summer comes, I'll be wishing again for the crisp freshness of snow. Why is it I only remember the things I like about something I'm wishing for, and never the way I shiver on my walk to work in December?
2) I'd really appreciate advice/help on comments made anonymously which have links to . . . yeah, you guessed it. Some easy way to find the person and beat the tar out of them would be appreciated. Or, barring that, a way to block it before it happens. Suggestions?
3) Got Michael' Fox's commentary (Anchor Bible series) on Proverbs 10-31 in the mail the other day . . . awesome. I wanted to do a series of posts about my favorite OT scholars, name names and give reasons why they're my favorites - but it would get pretty repetitious. I'll just say here that Fox manages to write for hundreds of pages without ever flagging in clarity, focus, and conciseness. His one goal is to make sense out of the OT text; every time I read something by him, I come away thinking, "That passage makes more sense now." His writing is fat-free and sugar-free; secondary scholarly literature, of which he reads voluminously, is always secondary. I'm sort of in awe of his ability to focus decades of work on . . . the text. It gives his writing a crispness and verve I hardly ever read elsewhere.
Some OT scholarly literature is helpful; and a few works in that group will move beyond being helpful in terms of content to helpful in how they go about things. I don't just learn, I start watching how the scholar goes about his task so I can imitate him. Fox definitely belongs in this category (for me, I have the same desire to imitate when I read Bruce Waltke, Patrick Miller, my father Ray Ortlund . . . perhaps a few others); but he goes a bit beyond even that. There's a purity in his execution which is almost unique, at least in my reading.
4) Teaching Psalms next week. Tough to make that stuff boring. Prayers appreciated, especially for Tuesday, since I'll have taught around 11 hours the day before.
5) Was going to post on the theology of the show The Office - but that's enough for now. Next time.
1) Wind chill today is -31. Last week - literally - it was in the 40s. Go figure. I'm already thinking about summer - and when summer comes, I'll be wishing again for the crisp freshness of snow. Why is it I only remember the things I like about something I'm wishing for, and never the way I shiver on my walk to work in December?
2) I'd really appreciate advice/help on comments made anonymously which have links to . . . yeah, you guessed it. Some easy way to find the person and beat the tar out of them would be appreciated. Or, barring that, a way to block it before it happens. Suggestions?
3) Got Michael' Fox's commentary (Anchor Bible series) on Proverbs 10-31 in the mail the other day . . . awesome. I wanted to do a series of posts about my favorite OT scholars, name names and give reasons why they're my favorites - but it would get pretty repetitious. I'll just say here that Fox manages to write for hundreds of pages without ever flagging in clarity, focus, and conciseness. His one goal is to make sense out of the OT text; every time I read something by him, I come away thinking, "That passage makes more sense now." His writing is fat-free and sugar-free; secondary scholarly literature, of which he reads voluminously, is always secondary. I'm sort of in awe of his ability to focus decades of work on . . . the text. It gives his writing a crispness and verve I hardly ever read elsewhere.
Some OT scholarly literature is helpful; and a few works in that group will move beyond being helpful in terms of content to helpful in how they go about things. I don't just learn, I start watching how the scholar goes about his task so I can imitate him. Fox definitely belongs in this category (for me, I have the same desire to imitate when I read Bruce Waltke, Patrick Miller, my father Ray Ortlund . . . perhaps a few others); but he goes a bit beyond even that. There's a purity in his execution which is almost unique, at least in my reading.
4) Teaching Psalms next week. Tough to make that stuff boring. Prayers appreciated, especially for Tuesday, since I'll have taught around 11 hours the day before.
5) Was going to post on the theology of the show The Office - but that's enough for now. Next time.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
How To Regard The Person in the Pew Next to You
"Down in the kitchen MacPhee drew back his chair so that it grated on the tiled floor . . . . 'Man!' he exclaimed, 'it's a shame for us to be sitting here looking at the fire. If the Director hadn't a game leg himself, I'll bet you he'd have found some other way for us to go to work.' Camilla's eye's flashed towards him. 'Go on!' she said, 'go on!' 'What do you mean MacPhee?' said Dimble. 'He means fighting,' said Camilla. 'They'd be too many for us, I'm afraid,' said Arthur Deniston. 'Maybe that!' said MacPhee. 'But maybe they'll be too much for us this way too. But it would be grand to have one go at them before the end. To tell you the truth I sometimes feel I don't greatly care what happens. But I wouldn't be easy in my grave if I knew they'd won and I'd never had my hands on them. . . .' Camilla said, 'But . . . oh if one could have a charge in the old style. I don't mind anything once I'm on a horse.' 'I don't understand it,' said Dimble. 'I'm not like you, MacPhee. I'm not brave. But I was just thinking as you spoke that I don't feel afraid of being killed and hurt as I used to. Not tonight.' 'It might be . . . no, I don't mean anything heroic . . . it might be a nice way to die,' said Mother Dimble. They were laughing again, but it was a different kind of laughter. Their love for one another became intense. Each, looking on all the rest, thought, 'I'm lucky to be here. I could die with these.'
"Something tonic and lusty and cheerily cold, like a sea breeze, was coming over them. There was no fear anywhere: the blood inside them flowed as if to a marching song. They felt themselves taking their places in the ordered rhythm of the universe, side by side with punctual seasons and patterened atoms the obeying Seraphim. Under the immense weight of their obedience their wills stood up straight and untiring like caryatids. Eased of all fickleness and all protestings they stood: gay, light, nimble, alert. They had outlived all anxieties; care was a word without meaning." -C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength
"Something tonic and lusty and cheerily cold, like a sea breeze, was coming over them. There was no fear anywhere: the blood inside them flowed as if to a marching song. They felt themselves taking their places in the ordered rhythm of the universe, side by side with punctual seasons and patterened atoms the obeying Seraphim. Under the immense weight of their obedience their wills stood up straight and untiring like caryatids. Eased of all fickleness and all protestings they stood: gay, light, nimble, alert. They had outlived all anxieties; care was a word without meaning." -C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
American Idol and Justification by Faith
I hate American Idol. It's so shallow: the desire driving the show is nothing more than, Oh, I'm up on stage and everyone is applauding me and I'm a star and everyone loves me and even the judges approve of me. Yuck. If you're going to be ambitious, reach for something more. Wish for your own subcontinent or to be the emperor of China or something.
But I love watching the bad auditions for the show, like this one:
I guess laughter at this point might be innocent. But for myself, I'm suspicious of the way these bad auditions pull at me, because I think there are two other reasons, beyond wanting to be entertained. One is self-congratulatory: at least I'm not that bad! At least I'm better than those guys! But there's something slimier happening inside me as I watch: part of me is thinking, I am that bad, at least sometimes.
I mean, these people put their talents--and, in a deeper sense, themselves--on display and ask others to judge them. Sound like a doctrine you learned in Sunday School? I can't help but wonder if their ulterior motive (at least some of the time) is, If these judges approve of me, then I can approve not just of my talents, but of myself. If enough other people confirm me, then I can go ahead and feel OK about myself.
I read somewhere that murder mysteries are appealing, at least in part, because it gives the reader the pleasure of exposing and finding out the criminal . . . and of vicariously being the criminal. You get to satisfy your inherent sense of righteousness, and get the pleasure of imaginatively acting out your own evil. I sense the same contradictory currents within myself.
Justification provides a kind of cultural hermeneutic. It assumes that the deepest, most basic issue we are dealing with all the time is, Am I all right? Am I OK? Am I in the right? It then looks for various manifestations of this issue in the different rituals and events in our culture as attempts to resolve it (which, outside of the gospel, will always be idolatrous).
Justification provides a kind of cultural hermeneutic. It assumes that the deepest, most basic issue we are dealing with all the time is, Am I all right? Am I OK? Am I in the right? It then looks for various manifestations of this issue in the different rituals and events in our culture as attempts to resolve it (which, outside of the gospel, will always be idolatrous).
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Which Contextualizes Which?
Justification is that judicial verdict by which God pronounces me righteous and clean and right in his sight as moral arbiter of the universe, because I (always imperfectly) trust him, and not because I earn it. Sanctification is that process by which I grow out of sin and self, closer to Christ and more like him. But what's the relationship between the two? Which grounds which? Which do you turn to first? Which makes sense out of the other?
The question is not merely academic. For many years, without expressing it, I functionally lived as if sanctification contextualizes my justification--as if my growth in Christ is what makes my justification real and trustworthy and genuine--it was my sanctification that was my basis for me saying, "I really am a Christian, and I know I am." And even more, it was my own sensible perception of my sanctification--I didn't factor in that I might be growing in ways I wasn't aware of. I wanted/needed growth that was perceptible to me, so that I could constantly refer to it and reassure myself.
It didn't work--and not necessarily because I wasn't growing, because God was growing me. It was that the growth was so slow, and the larger margin of ungrowth was always so huge. In fact, the two seemed to stand in proportional relation to each other: the more I grew, the more I saw how much growing I still had left to do. My approach was ironically self-defeating: every inch of growth brought about deeper awareness of how much more I needed to grow. With growth as the main goal, the more I grew, the more that goal became ever distant.
And what saint, no matter how deeply they've walked with God, no matter how much progress God has granted them in spiritual growth--what saint, when they come to die, does not have an infinite amount of growth left? What saint, no matter how much progress they have made, can avoid saying at the end of their lives, "I have only made a beginning of a beginning?"
In my experience, when I made sanctification the central goal of my faith and justification peripheral to it, it was extremely difficult not to be constantly self-focused--and the more I focused on myself, the more frustrated and distraught and unhappy I was. I think I put the cart before the horse: justification is not something I ingest and then move past. It isn't my ticket into the kingdom which, after having been used, I rip up and throw away, because, hey, I'm already in. (Thanks so much, Dane, for that awesome analogy in your excellent Themelios article.) Rather, justification--the thing you believe when you've been a Christian for 30 seconds--is the engine driving your whole Christian life, and the engine driving your sanctification. Constantly coming back to my objective rightness in the eyes of God, so that it permeates my own internal atmosphere of wrongness and worry and agitation--that's what it's all about.
I say all this because of a recent interview I came across on the superb Mockingbird blog of Mark Galli, a CT columnist who recently wrote a piece, "The Scandal of the Public Evangelical." The most piercing claim (for me) in it was that sanctification means at least (and he hints that he thinks it's more) just coming to see how sinful you really are. Not awesome victory-after-victory in which you prove how different you are from the world, so that they are attracted to your superior moral lifestyle and come to Christ--but ever believing amazement that Jesus actually likes people like me. That's what we have to offer the world.
Even more striking in my mind is the multitude of negative responses this article provoked, responses I totally understand and sympathize with, but which I think mostly missed the point. (A separate article was written as well which, in my opinion, ironically illustrates the self-focus, and the fading God-focus, which comes about when Christian transformation becomes the main goal). You can read the interview, with links to both articles, here:
http://mockingbirdnyc.blogspot.com/2009/11/exclusive-interview-mark-galli-of.html
The question is not merely academic. For many years, without expressing it, I functionally lived as if sanctification contextualizes my justification--as if my growth in Christ is what makes my justification real and trustworthy and genuine--it was my sanctification that was my basis for me saying, "I really am a Christian, and I know I am." And even more, it was my own sensible perception of my sanctification--I didn't factor in that I might be growing in ways I wasn't aware of. I wanted/needed growth that was perceptible to me, so that I could constantly refer to it and reassure myself.
It didn't work--and not necessarily because I wasn't growing, because God was growing me. It was that the growth was so slow, and the larger margin of ungrowth was always so huge. In fact, the two seemed to stand in proportional relation to each other: the more I grew, the more I saw how much growing I still had left to do. My approach was ironically self-defeating: every inch of growth brought about deeper awareness of how much more I needed to grow. With growth as the main goal, the more I grew, the more that goal became ever distant.
And what saint, no matter how deeply they've walked with God, no matter how much progress God has granted them in spiritual growth--what saint, when they come to die, does not have an infinite amount of growth left? What saint, no matter how much progress they have made, can avoid saying at the end of their lives, "I have only made a beginning of a beginning?"
In my experience, when I made sanctification the central goal of my faith and justification peripheral to it, it was extremely difficult not to be constantly self-focused--and the more I focused on myself, the more frustrated and distraught and unhappy I was. I think I put the cart before the horse: justification is not something I ingest and then move past. It isn't my ticket into the kingdom which, after having been used, I rip up and throw away, because, hey, I'm already in. (Thanks so much, Dane, for that awesome analogy in your excellent Themelios article.) Rather, justification--the thing you believe when you've been a Christian for 30 seconds--is the engine driving your whole Christian life, and the engine driving your sanctification. Constantly coming back to my objective rightness in the eyes of God, so that it permeates my own internal atmosphere of wrongness and worry and agitation--that's what it's all about.
I say all this because of a recent interview I came across on the superb Mockingbird blog of Mark Galli, a CT columnist who recently wrote a piece, "The Scandal of the Public Evangelical." The most piercing claim (for me) in it was that sanctification means at least (and he hints that he thinks it's more) just coming to see how sinful you really are. Not awesome victory-after-victory in which you prove how different you are from the world, so that they are attracted to your superior moral lifestyle and come to Christ--but ever believing amazement that Jesus actually likes people like me. That's what we have to offer the world.
Even more striking in my mind is the multitude of negative responses this article provoked, responses I totally understand and sympathize with, but which I think mostly missed the point. (A separate article was written as well which, in my opinion, ironically illustrates the self-focus, and the fading God-focus, which comes about when Christian transformation becomes the main goal). You can read the interview, with links to both articles, here:
http://mockingbirdnyc.blogspot.com/2009/11/exclusive-interview-mark-galli-of.html
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
When You're Useless
I already talked about this song, but can't help posting it here. Sam Phillips. Love it, love it, love it. "When you're useless, I love you more."
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