Couched Knowledge

Susie Cassel bragged about her "new" couch tonight. It was quite the steal: $30 for a respectable looking yellow two-seater that has a certain vintage look to it and actually matches their living room decorations remarkably well.

Tonight offered seniors the opportunity to impart some wisdom upon the flock before we skip town. Fully aware I had to say something, I sat on Susie's new couch, squeezed between Hops and Jay, whom I feared would give me a swift elbow to the side in lieu of my normal shark tank treatment should I say anything sketchy.

Trouble is, everything I know comes from me being pretty good at screwing things up. Basically, the pattern of my last four years of life—and I fear the pattern goes back much further—is that in the most important decisions of my life, I have made what turned out to be the best decision, even though it is usually precisely the opposite of what I wanted.

Whenever I share advice I find myself wanting to show to others what great decisions I have made, or how I've done things right. Instead, my advice was more of a confession. Thanks to my friend Steph and her blog, I recently read this quote from Jacques Derrida, whom I cannot claim to have read in any depth:

“One always writes in order to confess, one always writes in order to ask for forgiveness.”

Trying to share tonight at After Hours was only the last of my "confessions" of the last month. Every one of the 70 pages I've written over the last month has expressed the Gospel in some form, if only in a small way. And each confession of the Gospel has pushed me to a confession in the second sense of the word—to admit fault—that I do not live to the standards of which I write.

What a blessed word it is in Proverbs 1:7, "The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge." Not wisdom of myself. Not by my experiences.

This is a fear I need to learn more of.

Poets and Bishops and Altos

It may seem odd that in the midst of 60 pages of writing due in the next four weeks, I am taking time to blog. However, it is scientifically proven that:

fun (blog) > fun (paper Dr. Treier will grade)

And if there is a time in the week that ought to be fun, it's 10:30 on a Saturday night. And, I'm thinking about this because I'm stuck on a section of my confession paper.

A couple years ago my small group went on a group date of sorts to see Paradise Lost, a rock/electronica opera written by Eric Whitacre. Whitacre is one of the premier young composers of choral music (among his many talents), and composed the music for one of my favorite pieces I've ever sung, i thank you God for most this amazing (day), using the words of the poet e.e. cummings (yes, my capitalization in that sentence is correct).

{{As a side note, it was one of my more pathetic moments in dating life. By coincidence, ill-fortune, and perhaps because I had bad hair, I struck out (twice), asking six girls who were unable to join us. In the end, I brought a male friend of mine who sang in choir with me. But I digress.}}

The opera was musically stunning, if lyrically inane at points. Although it was not fully staged, the pure aural sensation was overwhelming in itself. In a sense, it was a beautiful piece of art in that it did not reveal its philosophical leanings until the very last. At that point, it became clear that it was the most blatantly humanistic expression of art I had seen. Thus bringing into question my fondness for Whitacre—and the song.

You see, the song had been an important one for our choir the previous year. The words a stunning expressiong of beauty in creation—and thankfulness to God. The music pulls at your heart, working in unison with the lyrics, perfectly emoting a yearning and peaceful thankfulness. It was one we sang at two or three concerts, and would occasionally sing at the end of a rehearsal on a sunny day in spring or at the end of a long week.

Cummings' poem is a beautiful expression of creation and thankfulness. Yet, Cummings was an unabashed Unitarian. Add to that Whitacre's unashamed humanism, and the entirety of the creative process for this work of art was, by my standards, non-Christian. How, then, did it hold such an intimate spot in our Christian choir's heart? How could it have such spiritual value?

First, I think there is a degree to which Cummings' poem is portable to trinitarian Christianity for two reasons. One, it speaks only of creation, of that which can be seen as general revelation. It's religious tone is in the thankful response: "i thank you God". Two, particularly in the artistic community at Wheaton, it is common to give artists quite a degree of liberty in expressing religious ideas. This cannot turn into sloppy theological discernment, where we cling to the words that work for our view and ignore the whole of the composition.

However, there is an underlying theological issue: What is it about anything in particular that makes it an efficacious tool for God to work with? In church history, there has been debate as to whether (and by what means) ordinances (or sacraments) confer grace or have value. One view, ex opere operato, asserts that sacraments have efficacy on the basis of how they are performed (can you botch a baptism if you don't fully submerse the participant?). Another view places an emphasis on the apostolic succession, believing that there is an unbroken chain of apostolic ministry dating back to Jesus' apostles. A third (discarded) view bases the efficacy on the holiness of the minister.

Frankly, none of these positions are officially held in evangelical protestant churches. The power of an ordinance to fulfill its purpose is entirely outside the realm of human control. Baptism is done in the name of the Triune God, not by the name of the pastor who dunks the participant.

That's a bit of a digression, but I think it's important as we consider the function of the song in question. The song and lyrics are not written by properly holy men descended from the Apostles. The lyrics are not Trinitarian, but they do suggest a proper response to God's creation, yet are nothing that would be appropriate for corporate worship in the Church. Still, I would argue that by God's grace, this song became an means by which our choir could reflect upon and properly respond to the beauty of God's creation, in thankfulness for what he has made.

This is not an argument that Christians can and should hijack every possible piece of art for Christ and His Kingdom. Quite the contrary. Many beautiful songs, written by great men of the faith and containing theological truth, are sung and heard without hearts properly orienting to God. No, it is not the beauty of the song, nor the truthfulness of the words that turns a song into pleasing worship. It is clean hands and pure hearts, faithfulness to God's commandments that pleases God. It is God who turns hearts to worship him.

Dear Refuge of My Weary Soul

Someone jumped in front of a train behind my apartment tonight. I'd be lying if I said it isn't getting to me. It causes me to reflect on the difficult things of this life. Any response to things like this is inevitably...inconsiderate. What do you say to a friend who lost a family member? Or to a community grieving a loss you do not share? Most people are too soon to speak.

I thought about writing something here, but all I could pen was too trite. I think this one reason God has given us music. This song says much more beautifully what I would stumble over.

1. Dear refuge of my weary soul,
On Thee, when sorrows rise
On Thee, when waves of trouble roll,
My fainting hope relies
To Thee I tell each rising grief,
For Thou alone canst heal
Thy Word can bring a sweet relief,
For every pain I feel

2. But oh! When gloomy doubts prevail,
I fear to call Thee mine
The springs of comfort seem to fail,
And all my hopes decline
Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?
Thou art my only trust
And still my soul would cleave to Thee
Though prostrate in the dust

3. Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face,
And shall I seek in vain?
And can the ear of sovereign grace,
Be deaf when I complain?
No still the ear of sovereign grace,
Attends the mourner's prayer
Oh may I ever find access,
To breathe my sorrows there

4. Thy mercy seat is open still,
Here let my soul retreat
With humble hope attend Thy will,
And wait beneath Thy feet,
Thy mercy seat is open still,
Here let my soul retreat
With humble hope attend Thy will,
And wait beneath Thy feet.

-Anne Steele

The Great Discontinuity

"Biblical faith begins with the radical announcement of discontinuity that intends to initiate us into a new history of anticipation."

-Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise,
and Challenge in Biblical Faith

The church in America generally struggles to preach vibrantly from the Old Testament. Most pastors either avoid it altogether or else reduce it to pithy moralizations that highlight the human players at the cost of seeing the work of the Divine Playwright.

The Old Testament is, admittedly, more intimidating than the New Testament. Because it is situated within the hellenized Roman Empire, the early church doesn't seem so culturally distant from us; we in the west have a much harder time dropping into the milleu of Abraham than of Paul.

In one sense, it is unhelpful to separate the testaments. While the reasons we do so are strong and many, the cost is (or at least, can be) a failure to see the consistency of God's action throughout history—and what responding to God's action requires of humans.

Brueggemann develops his concept of biblical faith from the example of Abraham, who, through an act of discontinuity, left a life behind to follow the promise of Yahweh. This faith, however, is not stagnant, but rather one of great anticipation. Abraham demonstrated this anticipation throughout his life: Though the biblical text only gives a few instances of God speaking to Abraham, he trusted in God's promises for decades of his life. He trusted God to the point of being faithful—even to his deathbed, when the only land of promise he could claim was his grave site. A great nation? A land for his own? Hardly.

Yet Scripture shows us how God made good his promises to Abraham. At the crossroads of the testaments stands the Incarnation: very God of very God takes on human flesh and reconciles a chosen people to himself. As great as was the discontinuity in Abraham's life when he trusted in God's promises, how much greater will be the Christian's response to the Incarnation, the Great Discontinuity?

In light of the Resurrection we celebrate today, we celebrate an anticipation that because the grave could not hold Jesus, neither will it hold his children. We shall not remain dead, but shall be raised! Abraham left certainty of earthly comfort, family, and familiarity to follow God into unpromising (by human standards) territory. His faith required a discontinuity from his past life in order to embrace anticipation of God's promise. I fear many who fashion themselves "Christian" do not sufficiently embrace this discontinuity.

Alleluia!

Life imparting heavenly manna
Stricken rock with bleeding side
Heaven and earth with loud hosanna
Worship You, the Lamb who died.

Alleluia! Jesus, True and Living Bread!

Restoration Project is done. Last summer Daniel, Jason and I sat down and talked (over a choice beverage) about recording some of the songs we'd been using in church over the last few years. I don't know that I thought it would pan out; you can see the man who put in the countless hours to make it happen here.


I think of Restoration Project as a good bottle of katsup. It's not the food your soul needs, but a flavoring. Katsup has no nutritional value. A diet of katsup alone will lead to malnutrition and death. But when the Gospel looks like your aunt's dry meatloaf, I pray that Restoration Project will be a means God uses to entice you to try just that first bite. And once you taste the Gospel, you will see how sweet it is—and need katsup no longer.

Last summer we flipped the glass Heinz bottle, and for the last 9 months we've banged on the 57's. It took awhile for it to flow, but Heinz is always worth the effort. Now that it's flowing, we pass the bottle to you. Give it a few taps. If the Gospel has become bland to you, or you have never tasted of it, I pray that it will help you to yearn for the True and Living Bread. Taste of Christ that you would hunger no more—and yet hunger for him increasingly.

The good news we sing of is not salvation by the works of human hands, but by the work of Christ Jesus alone. For this reason—because Christ is the only worthy one—the glory goes to him alone.

i thank You God for most this amazing...

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)




e.e. cummings

Missions and Living

A missions-minded friend of mine frequently expresses frustration at how few Wheaton students respond to calling to enter the missions field. Forget counting the number of missionaries that have gone out from the Wheaton community lately—I could count on one hand the number of students I know who seek to do long term missions—there just isn't any sort of fervor on campus about missions. When people sit around at night talking with friends trying to figure out what to do with their life, missions is rarely raised as a potential calling.

The lack of fervor for missions is a problem in itself, but I think that the problem extends beyond this particular to how we understand our calling in light of the gospel. I wish to explore this from two angles. First, whether we take seriously the (very biblically based) concept that "everyone is called to missions, but only some are called to go." That is, whether we are properly executing the Church's mission in other cultures. In another post, I hope to look at the second area: How those who who stay in their own culture can make decisions in their life to impact their own culture for the gospel.

The mantra that was pummeled into my mind from an early age in the church was that, "Some are called to go, some are called to send (financially), all are called to pray." Unfortunately, this is hardly ever faithfully enacted. The model for prayer for missions is not passive, but rather striving together for the sake of the gospel (Romans 15:30).

My assertion is this: Those of us that stay in our own cultures and support missionaries who go (through prayer and finances) should expect our lives to be disturbed by the cost of the gospel going out to the nations. We ought to prioritize both our time and finances to serve the gospel, perhaps even at the cost of other opportunities. It is impossible to say generally what this looks like for each person, and I won't suggest much in the way of pragmatics here. As much as conversation needs to happen in these areas, a reformation of missions will only happen among those who radically center their lives on the hope given in Christ. Is there hope beyond the grave? Have we been given promises in Christ greater than this life can offer? Then to live means service of Christ, and death is gain! Our lives are not our own.

I pray that I would be faithful to Christ in the faith of death. A one time giving of self for Christ seems simple compared to living life day to day as if my life is not my own. A life of continual sacrificial giving, earnest, engaged prayer (such that one aches with the sufferings and struggles of those in the missions field), or even giving up a life in America that is very appealing—that is a challenge I cannot face alone. As the martyr relies on God for faithfulness in the face of death, so rely on God's grace for faithfulness in every moment of life.


Up next: On False Entitlement