American Gods

Just finished reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods. Written in 2001, the publishers have come out with an expanded version this year, and the book is experiencing a resurgence. Most modern novels are written as screen-plays, and American Gods is no different. The internet tells me the movie will be out soon. Hopefully we will be spared the gratuitous sex scenes, but I doubt it.

The plot of American Gods is this: America is populated by a hosts of old gods brought over by immigrants from Europe, Africa, India, and eastern Asia. These gods only live because somewhere someone still believes in them. They are weak and dying out because America is not a fertile land for gods, and because new materialistic gods (automobiles, internet, etc) are usurping the need for them. The new gods are short-lived because technology is constantly changing.

War clouds between the two groups thicken as the plot unfolds, until the inevitable conflict erupts at (would you believe?) Rock City on Lookout Mountain. Disaster is averted because Shadow, the anti-hero, uncovers a plot by Odin and Loki, who have created the whole scenario to increase their power by bloodshed and chaos. At the last minute he addresses the gathered combatants, stops the conflict, and everyone goes home to live (or fade away) happily ever after.

It is always good to read fiction at several levels, and I want to try and evaluate it in layers. First, from a Christian perspective: Gaiman's approach is purely humanistic. The gods are projections of men's needs and visions, and lose their power and their own existence if they are not believed in and worshiped. In contrast the God of the Two Testaments is not diminished in his essence by lack of faith or adoration. He is a concrete reality apart from any perception of him.

Gaiman's personification of the gods may express a deeper reality in Christian cosmology. One of the most humorous passages is a conversation between the goddess Eostre and a waitress in a local restaurant. When asked if she believes in goddesses, the waitress replies that she worships the inner feminine principle--adhering to an abstraction in the face of the fearful reality. Christianity certainly believes in personalities behind bad thinking.

Jesus is marginalized in American Gods. He is pictured briefly roaming the Middle East and looking lost. Shadow's conversation with him is not in the body of the text, but is added in the appendix of the new edition. Jesus complains that he feels spread too thin by the multiplicity of interpretations of who he is. He also feels harried by the number of prayers that involve solving people's problems. Hmm.

Gaiman also takes the classic humanist position that all religion is projection, and that Christianity is simply an extension of the old mythologies--that Christianity stole the best of paganism. Christmas is the Saturnalia, Easter is Eostre's day, etc. This is no place to take on those worn arguments. Gaiman needs a dose of George McDonald, Chesterton, Tolkien, and CS Lewis, who dealt definitively with them (mythology is the result of "rays of celestial glory falling on a garbage heap of imbecility....").

In the end, Gaiman favors stereotypical American Indian pantheism. Brother fox and brother wolf and sister moon and brother man are all one in the loving hand of mother earth. Nothing new here.

Then there is American Gods as literature: All good fiction tells the truth. It creeps out sometimes in spite of the author's attempt to go in a different direction. Behold! Shadow, the dark hero, dies alone, tied to a tree, fulfilling a covenant with the great sky-father (Odin), who turns out to be his biological father as well (Shadow is therefore man and god). He descends into the lower regions, where he learns great and mystical truths, defeats the powers of darkness, and returns to life just in time to save the earth from destruction. He reveals the heart of a secret murderer, and grants his wife (bride??) her final wish. Shadow possesses none of the depth of Jean Valjean or Sydney Carton, or even Frodo and Sam. But there it is: the same theme stated over again. Dark truth, but truth. Astounding.

Lastly, American Gods as a piece of "americana": Gaiman seems to want it looked at that way. It is, at a cultural level, a statement about materialism and spirituality. American technological and communicative inventiveness is moving so fast that it is impossible to catch up, and American gods are changing so rapidly, that a spiritual exhaustion and hunger is on the rise. Unfortunately, many are "looking for love in all the wrong places." American Gods is a good synopsis of current cultural tensions, and reveals an opportunity for the church, if she can humble herself and learn the language.

Summer Thoughts

During the summer months my reading has consisted in what I would call devotional literature: portions of John Chrysostom, Augustine, St. John of the Cross, de Caussade, St. Seraphim, Hannah Whithall Smith, Calvin’s Institutes, and Luther's Table Talk. I've done this purposefully because I've had an urge to feed my soul instead of my mind, feeling that I need to shake my encrusted presuppositions and habits.

All those men and women of the Spirit have challenged and worked changes in my inner self. But I find myself coming away with a satiety that makes me uncomfortable and still unfulfilled. All of these works share a common cast of characters-- two, to be exact: God and the human soul. Simply put, spirituality is vertical. Horizontal relationships with other human beings, especially Christians, are secondary fruits of the inner changes wrought on the soul by God Himself. That the horizontal itself might be a means of discovering God seems rare in the devotional literature.

That does not mean that these writers do not mention or exalt the place of the church in the believer’s life. But it is the church defined by function: it is the authoritative and only source of Word and Sacrament. The church becomes a shadowy abstraction that provides necessary services, instead of a living organism that brings the life of Christ to me through flesh and blood.

What is the Word unless it comes to me through another, who in his own uniqueness sees truths and tastes Christ in ways that my own frame of mind would keep me blind to until I die? What is the Word unless someone I trust holds me to it, and insists that I walk it out instead of intellectualizing about it?

And what is the Sacrament if we do not understand that we are one Body because we partake of the one Loaf? That as I feed on Christ I feed on my brother, and as I feed on my brother I feed on Christ?

I have surfeited myself this summer on the Greats, but am beginning to feel like a giant fat spider in a lonely corner. I would be happy with an evening of wine and jokes, of honesty and acceptance, of the warmth of other’s homes and children, of kitchen smells. There, beyond all the great works, I believe I could find Christ where He truly dwells.

Thoughts on Idols and the Dark Night

I once heard a pastor say, in reference to God's dealings with Old Testament Israel, that God does not come against a people, but against its idols. That is true of the church corporately, but more especially of the individual believer.

In The Dark Night of the Soul, St. John of the Cross relates the seven deadly sins to idolatry of the heart. And these idols are not, as we might expect, idols of gross fleshly indulgence, but idols of the Christian man--sins coated with a religious or spiritual veneer. Let me summarize these, remembering that though St. John places these in the context of Catholic monasticism, they apply to any brand of Christian.

--Pride: self-congratulation over spiritual exercises, ecstatic experiences, and perceived spiritual maturity. Spiritual pride will not allow a man to confess his deepest and grossest sins, and causes him to hang out with like minded folks who look down on the great unwashed masses. A prideful Christian is impatient with his own shortcomings, believing that he should be beyond them already. His acceptance by God is performance based. He resents others when God advances them. Pride's opposite is humility, and love that seeks the advancement of others at one's own expense.

--Avarice: discontent with the level of spirituality that God grants. A Christian afflicted with avarice is constantly seeking counsel, reading to find the secret of spiritual growth, and experimenting with new gadgets that will make him more spiritually mature--a new rosary, a uniquely shaped crucifix, or for Protestants, a new translation of the Bible (the ESV on Kindle!) or anything made from olive wood grown in Israel (especially if it is ornamented with Hebrew script). Avarice's opposite is contentment.

--Luxury: enjoyment of the pleasure of spiritual experience to the point of pursuing feeling rather than God. All friendships, public services, and private devotions are centered on a subjective response. Luxury's opposite is the pursuit of God for himself.

--Wrath: impatience with one's own spiritual growth. It's indicator is anger when times of spiritual fervor or renewal are over, or are taken away. It rises when the Christian believes that others are humiliating him. Wrath also expresses itself by constant irritation with the sins and slow growth of others. Christians who are prone to wrath also look at hardship as proof of God's rejection rather than proof of fatherly discipline. Wrath's opposite is patience.

--Gluttony: overdoing secondary means that bring spiritual growth or experience--fasting, praying, the sacraments, study, silence, etc. Gluttony produces a lack of balance in the use of spiritual disciplines. One sign of its presence is peevishness and being encouraged to moderation by others. Its opposite is just that: moderation.

--Envy: quite simply, displeasure at the virtues of others, and their being praised or advanced by the leaders of the church. Envy's opposite is love.

--Sloth: wanting only spiritual blessing, and avoiding and questioning any hardship. A slothful Christian questions God's will when it crosses his own will, measures himself by himself, and resists discipline. It's opposite is courage.


* * *

We are all familiar with these "spiritual" sins, but less familiar and even frustrated by God's response to them. Let me make the following observations:

First, God wants us wholly for himself, and in order for that to occur, we must learn two truths: we are depraved creatures, unable to save ourselves; and God loves us and gives himself far us beyond our understanding.

Second, an idol is anything from which we gain identity or define ourselves outside God (Neil Silverburg). Much of our Christian experience is simply God casting down our idols.

Third, idols can be, and frequently are, our most dearly held beliefs, practices, and attachments, including church, ministry, and our own practices of devotion and discipline (Bible study, prayer, meditation, fellowship, worship, sacraments, relationships, blogging, and Facebook). God periodically brings us into "dark nights" when none of these things seem to work for us. In such times the soul finds no pleasure outside the knowledge that God is working to be our identity solely.

Fourth, The casting down of idols sets us free.

Thoughts on the Transfiguration

"After six days Jesus took Peter, James and John with him and led them up a high mountain, where they were all alone. There he was transfigured before them. His clothes became dazzling white, whiter than anyone in the world could bleach them. And there appeared before them Elijah and Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” (He did not know what to say, they were so frightened.)
Then a cloud appeared and covered them, and a voice came from the cloud: “This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him!” Suddenly, when they looked around, they no longer saw anyone with them except Jesus."

Before I get into this text, I need to define the audience of this blog. Theologically minded Christians will find in the Transfiguration account an exposition of the divine/ human natures of Jesus in one Person, liturgists will find the hidden glory of Christ in the Eucharist, and social action believers will skip the whole episode to get to the deliverance of the demonized boy at the foot of the mountain, for whom this text is but a prelude.

But there are a few folks out there, either Protestant charismatics or Roman contemplatives (and a handful of evangelical mystics), who long for such a revelation of the glorified Christ either corporately or privately. They desire the Presence that transforms, that humbles the flesh-- a foretaste in this life of the final consummation of spiritual union. I am not offering an apologetic for such subjective experiences, but taking them as a given. Those who believe in revelations of the presence of God are my audience.

We in the experiential camp refer to such an encounter as a "mountain-top experience." The term conveys the ideas of light, love, and renewed comprehension of God--all positive notions. But I think we are mistaken. In reality, I can't think of any literal mountain top experience in the Scriptures that was so positive. The people fled from Sinai. Elijah was almost destroyed at Horeb. The prophets of Baal were wiped out at Carmel. And the greatest mountain top experience in history occurred at Golgotha. The experience of the three disciples at the Transfiguration was anything but sweetness and light. The text says they were "frightened." The ESV uses "terrified." They were in fact reduced to a state of (here is a southernism) total discobobulation, if not outright stupidity. Here are some points to ponder if we are to pursue the manifest presence of God.

First, don't push it. The disciples were not present at the Transfiguration because they had fasted and prayed ("tarried") in preparation. It took them totally off guard. Jesus revealed himself to them in such a manner in his own good time, knowing where the disciples were in their spiritual progress. He warned them to keep it to themselves, because his glory could not be understood outside of the context of the resurrection and the ascension. God is in sovereign control of such occurrences and knows the stages of the development of the human soul, and when they will bear proper fruit.

Second, hush. Human beings have an intense need to jabber when encountered with something over their heads--sorta like an urge to tellthe President that you once ran for president of your 7th grade class (and lost). The disciples felt they had to say something. The fact is that they were prostrate outside an incomprehensible conversation between superiors. The disciples were mere spectators, and there was wisdom in accepting the fact.

Third, bear it. In such moments the human soul is aware of only two things: It is more evil than it ever knew; It is more loved than it ever knew (stolen from Pastor Neil). The work of the burning presence of Christ unveiled is far deeper than knowledge. The soul is totally in his hands, and there is no recourse to conventional mental habits, nor is there a context by which to control the Spirit’s work. Bare trust is its only consolation.

Fourth, be still. Peter couldn’t control his urge to do something: “Let’s make some tents.” The idea is so ludicrous--that beings who for centuries had lived in a perfected state learning the mysteries of God needed a place to stay, is embarrassing. Some of Peter’s response is based on the need to cover and control the glory-- lock it up and let it out at intervals--but I think at a deeper level it arose from the need to respond to God with action, residual Performance Based Acceptance. The only true response to a manifestation of Divinity is a yielded heart. No action is called for on the human side; all the action is God’s initiative. Activity blocks the flow of the Spirit's work.

Lastly, such moments are rare, and not the stuff of everyday Christian life. That is why, after the glory of the Transfiguration, God pointed the disciples to Jesus and said, “Listen to him.” The Jesus to whom the Father referred was the Jesus who walked with them and understood their humanity, with whom they could communicate, whose divinity was present but not overwhelming, accommodating their weakness. That, through the Spirit, is the Christ we encounter everyday. The rest is in his plan for us.

Vacation

Enjoyed our vacation with family at Hilton Head. One of my favorite things was to rise early and go outside to sit and read with a cup of coffee, interrupted by an occasional squirrel or lizard. I'm definitely a morning person. I admit I have some resentment about giving my employer the best hours of my day. By evening I'm not much good, and reading is a real effort at night.

I began to re-read Calvin's Institutes. His negative reputation among evangelicals is a puzzle to me. His work is full of joy at God's creation, and his description of Christ as Mediator (his favorite term for the Lord) is worth the read.

I also tackled The Dark Night of the Soul (St. John of the Cross), a classic of Roman mystical theology. It struck me as I was reading that St. John was describing universal mystical experience, and that a Catholic, an Orthodox, an "exchanged life" Protestant, a Buddhist, or a Sufi could identify with the painful process of moving from the world of sight and thought into the bliss of the Divine Love. Whether the process is looked upon as an attainment of the soul to a higher plane, or (from a Protestant point of view) the struggle of faith to believe that Christ has accomplished all we need for life and godliness, the experience is the same.

As usual on vacations, I contemplated my age and the future. I have a greater peace about both than I did a year ago. The refuge of old thoughts and habits is like an old leaky hut--not much there in the way of substance any more.

"I love thee, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer,
my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge,
my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold."

Events and Reviews

I haven't blogged much lately for a couple of reasons. I believe there's a difference in blogging and journaling. Blogging generally deals with the sharing of ideas; journaling with more internal, introspective, and sometimes private, issues. Most of my thoughts recently are in the second category, suitable for a dog-eared notebook. Also, I am aware that the greatest percentage of my social contacts are electronic, which is troublesome to me. I would give up Facebook, except I find that the "message" function is more efficient and enables me to contact more people privately than regular e-mail. Interesting that Facebook precludes Facetime. "Brave new world, to have such creatures in it." Anyway, here's what's been happening with me recently.

Events: Christ Covenant Church in Sevierville, to which I was connected for eight years, voted this spring to disband. Their last service was on Good Friday. I found this very sad. I had hoped for resurrection in their midst. Goodness knows a lot of people have loved that church and its school and poured themselves into it over the years. I have also had an opposite reaction, something akin to freedom, because it means that the reasons that I came to Sevier County in the first place are no longer there. It makes it easier to be defined by the future instead of by the past.

Another event is the change taking place at Trinity Chapel in Knoxville, where we've been members for the last eight years. Changes in leadership are moving us in a direction that will emphasize house churches, leadership training, and a need for exegetical, expository preaching and teaching. If you know my past, you know that I am salivating over this. I'm trying to heed John Kellogg's word to "be expectant, but don't have expectations," but I do believe there will be a renewal of ministry for me at Trinity. Regardless, we are embedded there.

Reading: Last month I finished Copan's Is God a Moral Monster?, an apologetic for the Old Testament against the "new atheists." I thought the description of the new atheists was more helpful than his defense of the faith. Two things: the new atheists are attempting to prove that non-believers can be just as happy and fulfilled in a world without God as Christians claim to be in a world with him. They proclaim a scientific evolution from which respect, compassion, and a love for beauty emerge. This strikes me as a bit odd, since the heart of evolutionary theory is survival of the fittest--"Nature, red in tooth and claw." Or as Doug Floyd pointed out somewhere, atheists who dwell in a non-metaphysical world are arguing their point from metaphysics.

My own observation about the new atheists is that they are old atheists with a shriller voice. They are angry. Religion is the bane of civilization. Jihad, the crusades, modern evangelism, and (I suppose) Zionism, are all of the same cloth. Fundamentalism in any form is the enemy ("A man who is willing to die for something is also willing to kill for it."). I hear this shrillness filtering down to plain everyday secular folks. It makes calm discussion difficult, and is a little scary.

Copan's defense of the Old Testament God had some good points, but left me feeling like the depths were never explored. He reminded his readers that the Old Covenant was temporary to the point that it was eviscerated. There are some good exegetical studies--but Copan will probably never live down his exegesis of Deuteronomy 25:11-12. It isn't for public consumption. I'll "message" you about it on Facebook if you request it.

I prefer the "Christ is on every page of the Old Testament" approach to reading the Old Covenant. Verne Poythress did some seminal work along these lines in The Shadow of Christ in the Law of Moses (1991), as well as Jim Jordan in Through New Eyes (1988). You can tell by the dates that I am behind the times. There may be more and better expositions of that approach now. I realize it opens a new can of worms (did Jesus wipe out the Canaanites?), but it's the most consistent approach for a Christian. I didn't feel that Copan explored that angle sufficiently.

I also found a copy of Hannah Whitall Smith's The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life in a drawer that has a bookmark in it from Anne's college days. I am wearing a mask as I read it because the dust sets off my allergies. I categorize her with a number of "inner life" authors like Torrey, Murray, Tozier, and, later, Martin Lloyd Jones. I think of them as "pre-charismatic" evangelicals. It interests me that some of them referred to the "Baptism in the Holy Spirit" (see Lloyd-Jones' Joy Unspeakable) without emphasizing charismatic gifts. It's ironic to me that modern evangelicals shy away from this terminology because it might identify them with the Pentecostal/charismatic renewals. There's evidence in the early evangelicals that the "Baptism of the Holy Spirit" is part of their heritage.

The message in Secret is that Christ has done everything for our salvation, and we walk by faith. Utterly simple, and most readily forgotten. I have to be told what amounts to the gospel every day. I would prefer to live in carnality and complacency, or, if I'm sufficiently stirred, slide over into legalism and self -salvation. Only the gospel frees--but we have to preach it to ourselves everyday because the kudzu of performance based acceptance never stops creeping into the dark corners of our lives. This is a great book and needs to be reread every few years.

One last comment: We’re headed for a week at Hilton Head. We have a place at Shipyard. Beth will be with us, and David and Channon will be on the island the first few days. We’ll also spend some time with Anne’s Mom. Beach, book, and Copa de Oro in my morning coffee.

Facebook, Castle Anthrax, and Brother Bob

I couldn't slow down on this one. It's a bit long. Split up your read if you need to.
My Facebook family has grown over the years. There are three distinct entry groupings: 1) Family. These are fairly innocuous and newsy entries that I sometimes respond to and immediately pass on to my wife to avoid "why didn't you tell me____" when the topic surfaces at the next reunion. 2) My local church family. These are usually various forms of praise to God for a meeting, a speaker, a community event, a concert, or a prayer request. These are written in a code that an evangelical would not understand. Fortunately, over the years I have developed the ability to speak Charismatic. (For instance, possession is not something you own; it is a state of being, and an undesirable one; and deliverance is not a movie.) 3) Everybody else. In this category are old friends, distant friends, and some distant friends of old distant friends. Many, if not most of these are Christians, and of their number many are into something.

By into something I mean that they are committed to some branch of the church, a commitment which makes me suspicious that it some Facebooky way, I am being evangelized. They may think this is effective, but the truth is that I am being evangelized from so many perspectives that they cancel each other out. I lapse into ecclesiastical overload. For every proponent of Orthodoxy there are at least two Calvinists, a handful of Reconstructionists (mostly exposing other Reconstructionists), three or four hard shell Baptists, a couple of pissed off liberals (imagine being emancipated into the socialist utopia by a bunch of grumps), some Anglicans, at least one dispensationalist who is far too exuberant over the death of thousands of Japanese because it means the Soon Return, and somewhere in there is a rather quiet Mormon. Funny--no Catholics, except the one who challenged my definition of "imputation" in an old blog. He wasn't even on my Friends list.

I remember a trip to Port-au-Prince back in the 1980's. I wandered into an indoor market, where I was greeted by a mob of budding capitalists who shoved me, grabbed me, and pushed everything from beads to something resembling a mango into my face. I shouted the only phrase I had learned from discerning missionaries, "Pap Ashte" (roughly: "I ain't buying today"), and fled for the door. For some reason my Facebook experience has triggered this memory. I feel pushed and pulled by a variety of fine folks to whom I respond with Christian charity, Pap ashte. It also has brought to mind Galahad's perils in Castle Anthrax, which in the interest of Christian delicateness I will not describe, but you can probably find it on Youtube. Suffice it to say that Galahad heard many siren voices urging him to stay in the Castle. Also suffice it to say that it was his love for the Grail that brought him into a place of such distraction to begin with. But I digress.

I believe some strange things. I believe all men are connected, not in their humanity, especially fallen humanity, but by the image in which they were created. I believe the Logos enlightens all men to some degree or other, which boils down to saying that there is truth everywhere, broken and incomplete, and sometimes almost destroyed, but there. That means that I expect light and darkness in every man I meet, or read, or "friend" on Facebook. I embrace the truth and am suspicious of the darkness. This is especially true of the way I look at the church. Bluntly: every group has a piece, but none has the whole. That is why we so desperately need each other. That means that the body of Christ is wider and deeper than my experience of it. And I want the best of what each part offers. Of course, because portions of the church are closed to all but full-on communicants, some of us are reduced to a kind of theological pilfering--peeking over the walls and grabbing what we can.

In utter perversity, I lay awake sometimes and work on a novel which I will never write, but the plot fascinates me. The protagonist is a young seminary graduate attending a conservative Presbyterian church. The pastor constantly preaches against the evils of subjectivism and enthusiasm. Being a rebel, our hero sneaks off to a store front charismatic fellowship on Sunday evening. He has an encounter with the Holy Spirit, and becomes a tongue-speaking prophet in that congregation. That pastor in turn preaches against the 3 "r's," religion, repetition, and ritual, all of which are prefaced with "vain." So off he goes to a small Anglican church across town that has a Wednesday night Eucharist. After a few months of practice and study, he develops an understanding and appreciation for the liturgy. He is baptized, receives the laying on of hands, and is confirmed in all three in sequence. Our protagonist asks deeply enigmatic questions, such as: "Will I really be a better tennis player if I join the US Tennis Association?" "If I do join, will they cancel my membership if I secretly play basketball?"

The rest of the book is his attempt to keep Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday evening from touching each other, and the tension builds: narrow escapes, etc. Of course, he is eventually discovered, and is excommunicated from the first two with great indignation. The Anglican priest, being a bit of an Emergent, laughs his head off and then suggests that he drop out of sight to avoid the wrath of the Parish Council. After making promises to behave, he moves to another town. The book closes with him flipping through the phone book looking for the names of churches.

Blasphemous? Rebellious? It does raise certain issues about authority and accountability. But what fun! And why not? The protagonist's constant questions are, "If I am this, why can't I be that?" "If I do this, why can't I do that?" Those are dangerous questions that can tear down walls.

But once again, I digress. Let me return to the original subject. Somewhere back there I was talking about Facebook and evangelism and anthrax. Some final points:

One: Things will never be the same. The age of computer connectedness is upon us, and it is impossible not to be confronted with other ideas, especially where the church is concerned. Gone are the days of hiding in one's own sanctuary and viewing with suspicion those who dwell afar. Ideas are pinging around cyberspace at rates incomprehensible to one who still wants to hide with a book in a quiet place. This is not at all bad. I read somewhere recently (probably Facebook) that Al Queda is ticked off because it is being marginalized in the most recent revolutions in the Middle East. They (so far) have had little to do with the rise of democratic ideas that are passed from laptop to laptop. Borders are increasingly irrelevant. One would think that something similar will happen in the body of Christ.

Two: I can't help it. I love Phyllis Tickle's quadrant. Think of four squares created by a cross in the middle. One square are liturgicals, one consists of social action Christians, another is made up of conservatives (evangelicals), and the fourth are the renewalists (charismatics). At the center, where four corners meet, there is a swirl of conversation and experience that is causing the lines to blur and become indistinct. There's something growing in that mess. She points out in this illustration that a certain number of folks will recoil in horror from this chaos, and retreat, like Dean Smith's Tarheels, into their four corners. It's safe and predictable there. In a gracious openness, she acknowledges the contribution of the corner folks to the security of the others. This is no new concept, and I've blogged about it before. What concerns me today is how pronounced and strong the pursuit of the corners is becoming. The Quest for the True Church has never been healthier. There are just so damned many of them! So one is forced to pick, or to in a supernatural effort confess that he already belongs to all.

Three: I do not want to end with the impression that church membership is some spooky connection to something out there that has no feet, or hands, or heart. Of course the church has a local manifestation--and is most important manifestation of church for the individual believer. And that local expression is deeply cultural. It simply cannot be helped. As long as I live, I will think like a Western man; and more specifically, an American; and most specifically, a southerner. It is not a question of choice, but of birth and conditioning. I have this somewhat exotic notion that the Incarnation includes the capacity of God the Holy Spirit to reach into cultures and speak the language of that culture to its people. I realize that's laying a lot of responsibility on God. But if I must learn think like a 16th Century Englishman, or a Russian, or an Italian in order to find the Light of Christ, I am doomed.

At this point I think of Brother Bob--the (composite) Pastor of Booger Holler Independent Church in Sevier County, TN. Brother Bob is a big man who's worked with his hands all his life and has a raspy voice from shouting hell-fire from the pulpit on the weekends. He comes into our office pushing a snotty-nosed brat who is on probation at our office. He sits the brat in a chair, tells him to shut up, and to obey his probation officer--or every demon in hell will pitchfork his skinny butt for eternity. Now, folks, like it or not, this works. The brat begins to assume some responsibility and clean himself up. And it's not because of demons or pitchforks or the threat of force. It's because for the first time in his life a real man loves him and proves it with his action and his time. And there, in all its power for change, is the gospel. Why, I don't even like the man. He offends my old Anglican sensibilities. But he is what Sevier Countians needs. In their language. In their culture. And it will be different in every county, every region, every nation of the world. But the same Lord, and the same church.

God, Politics, and Humor

"Vladamir (Putin) had invited (President) Medvedev to visit with us in Sochi, Russia's equivalent of Camp David. The mood was festive. Putin hosted a nice dinner, followed by folk dancing. At one point, members of my delegation, including me, were plucked from our seats to take the stage. The dance felt like a combination of square dancing and the jitterbug. I'm sure I would have been more fluid if I'd had a little vodka in my system. Curiously enough, I rarely saw vodka on my trips to Russia, unlike in the old days of communism."

-George W. Bush, Decision Points


I had originally wanted to report these comments about vodka on Facebook, because it struck me as funny. There was irony in the use of vodka by the Spartan leaders of the old regime, and the lack of it by those we perceive as moving towards democracy and freedom. Humor: nothing more. But knowing my Facebook family, I was afraid that in some cases the humor would be lost, and the name "Bush" and the fact that I am reading his memoirs, would bring some hits from the right and left that would go beyond my desire to merely entertain. So I decided to be preemptive and contemplate politics and humor in a blog.

Let me say in defense of fair balance that I read Obama's The Audacity of Hope just prior to the 2008 elections. (Both books, by the way, were gifts from my daughter.) I found Audacity to be powerful, warm, compassionate, and above all, proactive. It was stirring. But I can't remember laughing one time during my read.

On the other hand, I laughed all the way through Decision Points, and kept interrupting Anne and the Australian Open to read anecdotes and funny personal experiences. It made me think about the nature of humor and politics. So I make the following sweeping generalization: though the right wing in American politics is plenty capable of anger, it still seems to have the capacity to laugh, and even laugh at itself. The left, on the other hand, looks like its caricature of the right--deadly serious about everything, puritanical, smileless, capable of humor only as mockery and sarcasm, and (to paraphrase Don Knotts) grimly spreading liberation around the world like a plague.

Why is this? I think it has something to do with God. Conservatives are, well, conservative. In a culture that has been moving to the left for a couple of generations, they are the foot-draggers and the looking-backers. A conservative today is about where a liberal of 20 or 30 years ago was. And because they are holding on to the past, perhaps as far back as Eisenhower, conservatives still have a memory of the Judeo-Christian tradition. (It also means in another 20 to 30 years we’ll all be a super-serious smileless lot, sourly defeating oppression and championing freedom of choice without a grin.) And while there are Christians on the left (Obama counts himself as one), I believe liberals in general are more comfortable with the Humanist Manifesto than the Bible, and breathe a sigh of relief that we are finally rid of God.

I’ve made a lot of assumptions here, and probably dug myself a deep hole, but my point is not really about politics. It is about the relationship of God and humor. I’ve always been fascinated with why things strike us funny, and I’m no further along than when I first began. That makes me think that humor cannot be understood within the realm of human endeavor alone. There is something transcendent about it--some standard of measurement outside ourselves that makes us think of ourselves as odd or out of step, or connected to some entity that sees us differently. CS Lewis said somewhere that the two greatest proofs of the existence of God are that men don’t like to walk by cemeteries at night, and they like to tell dirty jokes. There’s something about our bodies and the juxtaposition of spirit and flesh in one being that is funny to us. Something is wonderfully delightful about being us, something of heaven and earth are entwined within us, and something is also horribly wrong and unadjusted.

Consider the emotional fruits of confession. Con-fessio: to “say with.” In Greek, homo-logeo: to “say the same thing.” Simply put, confession is telling God what He already knows about us. While confession may bring tears and remorse, it’s final manifestation is laughter--a response to finally getting in step with the rest of the universe. Conversion, repentance, confession, redemption, reconciliation, are all words of laughter. Who cannot be moved with the Psalmist’s observation that “weeping may endure for a season, but joy comes in the morning.”

That leads to an even higher transcendence in laughter. God Himself is joyous. In His barely known essence as Three in One there is constant laughter as the Three enjoy one another. God laughs when He beholds His creation. And in some cosmic sense He laughs at us--not the laughter of mockery, but the laughter that comes from seeing His own beauty and joy reflected back to Him in small, fragile creatures that are capable of reason and feeling. It is Satan who is grim with self-determined purpose and discontent.

So here is a test. If you find the following dull and slightly offensive, or don’t get it, welcome to the left. If it makes you laugh, you are still a foot-dragging remnant of the right:

“Putin and I both loved physical fitness. Vladimir worked out hard, swam regularly, and practiced judo. We were both competitive people. On his visit to Camp David, I introduced Putin to our Scottish terrier, Barney. He wasn’t very impressed. On my next trip to Russia, Vladimir asked if I wanted to meet his dog, Koni. Sure, I said. As we walked the birch-lined grounds of his dacha, a big black Labrador came charging across the lawn. With a twinkle in his eye, Vladimir said, ‘Bigger, stronger, and faster than Barney.’ I later told the story to my friend, Prime Minister Stephen Harper of Canada. ‘You’re lucky he only showed you his dog,’ he replied.”

Incensed

My son's new wife has industrial asthma. That means her lungs are extremely sensitive to any particles in the air, from pollution to perfumes. She had a reaction to Anne's hand lotion when we were together over Christmas. We are having to learn to be aware and plan ahead when we see her. There is no question in our minds that love trumps lotion.

Recently the Reformed Episcopal church where David has been a member for years began to use incense in their morning service--which is a total disaster for Channon. After David objected, the vestry met and informed him that the practice would not be changed. This is basically excommunication for a physical inability from the worship of God as the vestry understands it. My son and daughter-in-law will be searching for another church within the same tradition. I love the Anglican tradition, and I love my family, and I’m conflicted. So, here goes.

First: the proper form of the worship of God is the raison d'etre of Anglicanism. The title of Peter Toon's Which Rite Is Right? pretty much sums up the Anglican passion. The nature of true worship trumps (though certainly does not ignore) evangelism, pastoral care, and discipleship. It is difficult to question this passion without appearing to be unconcerned about what pleases God, and frivolous about the depths and majesty of the liturgy. My only response to this is that Jesus gave a two sided answer to the question of what was the greatest commandment--Love God, and Love your Neighbor. It strikes me that worship involves both of these. The Apostle John told us that we cannot love God if do not love our neighbor. When a passion for correct worship negates passion for the development of the human spirit, the balance has been lost.

Second: there is no question that modern American churches (just because they are American) have to contend with "the tyranny of the weaker brother." Members of American churches constantly threaten to leave (with their tithe) over issues like the lighting in the sanctuary and the color of the new bathrooms. It is a power game. Church leaders have to eventually draw some lines, or they will be overwhelmed by democratization, the result of which is always mediocrity. But that is simply not the case here. We are not talking about preference or rebellion against authority, but plain, pure, physical necessity.

Third: there are a host of new Anglican denominations springing up in reaction to the swing to the far left in the older groups, especially ECUSA. These groups have two things in common: they are conservative, and they are, well, new. They are churches longing for continuity with the past who have no past, so they must create it instantaneously. Like Athena, they have to spring from the head of Zeus full-grown, with a history, all in one generation. Members of the REC may object to this characterization, since they are over 150 years old. But the recent attempt to break with their “Presbyterians with a prayer book” reputation, and their attempt to become more Anglican in order to reach disenchanted ECUSA’s, means that they are as “new” as more recent denominations.

Such churches do not have the luxury of real, in-time parish, diocesan, or denominational tradition like the Roman or Orthodox church down the street. They are having to create 500 years of Anglican tradition with a 21st Century generation, and create it quickly. I know whereof I speak. I was an Anglican for ten years. First was the alcohol issue. 16th Century Englishmen had never heard of Carrie Nation, but 21st Century evangelicals have, like it or not. Both parishes that I served gave in to the wine in the chalice/ grape juice in the tray compromise. The incense question was never even raised in my first parish. It was a matter of space. It would have been like firing up a thurible in a bathroom. Choke. Gasp. In the second parish, the rector tried it a couple of times. Those who did the most coughing and spluttering were long-time vestry members. Conviction gave way to expediency. We wanted a congregation (and its leaders) still present when the smoke cleared.

I must admit that I was disappointed. Here was an opportunity to finally do things right. I didn’t leave my past commitments and go through ordination to waffle around with compromise. But there were two major problems. One was the weight of history since the Reformation. We have seen two Great Awakenings, the holiness movement, the pietistic movements, the Pentecostal and charismatic renewals, and now, Emergence is upon us. I am not arguing for the validity of any of these. I am simply saying that history did not stop with Cranmer. Arresting the apex of all true worship in the 16th Century locks the Holy Spirit in that time frame.

The second problem is irritating and profound. The greatest obstacle to creating perfect worship is depraved, recalcitrant, God-loved, forgiven humanity, whose stomachs growl, whose posteriors grow numb, whose knees pop at the altar, whose lungs rebel against smoke, who want lunch and a quiet afternoon at home alone on Sunday with the little woman. Anyone who strives for the perfection of the ancient liturgy is going to have to reckon with this heaving mass of reluctance. Yet it was not the smell of incense, but this mass of sneezing, coughing, gurgling mutineers against all that is sacred that urged the heart of God to Incarnation and Passion. May I dare to say that they are the “real deal” in Christianity. If not, we could just leave the incense burning in the nave and go home, content that God would be honored without all this humanness.

Fourth: What the heck does God think? Well, it is certainly true in the Old Covenant that otherwise true believers were barred from the central worship places because of physical handicaps. God's concern at the time was to emphasize his utter separateness and holiness. Rules for worship trumped personal weaknesses. But now enters the New Covenant. The church moves through Christ from an exclusive stance to an inclusive one. "Do not touch the mountain" becomes "Come unto me, all you who are weary and heavy laden...." Is it possible that the sacrifice of the perfect form for the least saint is an odor more precious in the nostrils of God than all the properly prepared incense in Christendom?

For Us

If God is for us, who can be against us?

Perception, especially in the Christian faith, is everything. One such perception dawned on me when I read these words in Romans 8 this week. I tend to see God as a stationary Person whom I must approach to find forgiveness, encouragement, or solace. After all, Jesus spoke of himself as the "way," which implies that I must go on a some form of mini-journey to find him.

But for a moment, this verse in Romans pulled back a veil, and I saw things in reverse. I realized that I am not a Christian because I am for God, but because he is for me. We "love him because he first loved us." Or to use spatial language, we believe in him because he first moved towards us.

He moved towards us in the Incarnation. That was wholly his initiative. While the Jews may have prayed for deliverance and for a manifestation of the rightness of their revelation, the actual fact of the Incarnation was startling to the point of offense. And it certainly made no impact on philosophical pagans, for whom salvation was the escape of the spirit from the confines of human flesh.

He moved towards us in the earthly life of Jesus. The Jews defined ritual cleanliness as the opposite of uncleanness--hence the stringent laws about the place (or dis-placement) of lepers in the society. Yet Jesus walked into groups of lepers and touched them. The healing power within him was stronger than the effect of the disease upon him. Reversing the Old Testament principle of defilement, the light of Christ overcame the darkness. And he approached them.

He moved towards us in his cross and resurrection. I don't want to belabor the doctrine of the atonement here; but I want to point out that in these events God the Father made it possible for himself to dwell with and in beings who still struggle with uncleanness and are intellectually finite. A way has been opened for us to fellowship with him as we are, while being changed by it.

The gospel is certainly not something we earn. By definition it is the evangelium, the "good news." And it is good news because it is the initiative of God, his willingness to run to us when we are running from him. Without his initiative, their is no hope of salvation.

We've all seen romantic moments in a movie, or in a commercial, in which a husband gives his wife a gift beyond his means, but which demonstrates his love. Her response: "O George, what have you done?" The question sounds like an accusation. But it is the opposite-- a question based on the joy of experiencing something too good to be true. Incarnation, life, death, resurrection--I found myself asking in my last reading of Romans 8, "O God, what have you done?"