And He Is Us

We have met the enemy, and he is us.

-Walt Kelly

In the hum-drum of getting up, going to work, coming home, reading, attending church, and doing some teaching, my mind, which has an existence apart from my will, wanders down strange paths, peeking into old doors, and trying to understand what's happening in me, and around me in the culture.

One thing I think about far too much is the duality of American thought. Our culture grew out of two great movements: The Renaissance and the Reformation. For a while they were fairly comfortable bed-fellows, connected by a theory of education that produced both More's Utopia and Erasmus's edition of the Greek New Testament. Calvin was comfortable quoting Seneca and Cicero, and deist Thomas Paine was not adverse to quoting Scripture to provoke revolution. (For a modern rendition of this amalgam, consider the Christian school movement that relies on the Greek trivium and builds its curriculum around Latin and Logic.)

But the movements morphed (or perhaps reached their own logical conclusions), and the fellowship was broken. The Renaissance morphed into the Enlightenment, Deism, Romanticism, and with Darwin's boost, into modern secular humanism. The Reformation and its child Puritanism, morphed through later revivalism into modern evangelicalism, which has lost much of its power because it is embarrassed by its roots in Wittenberg and Geneva.

This parting of Renaissance and Reformation was inevitable, given the roots of both movements. The Renaissance was the rediscovery of Graeco-Roman culture and a philosophy that was based on two premises: 1) Man by reason can solve his problems and attain greatness (he is the measure of all things). 2) Whatever is natural is right. Hence Bowra's (The Greek Experience) defense of the exposure of deformed infants as consistent with natural evolution; and anyone who has struggled through Plato's Dialogues knows Socrates' "natural" fascination with young boys. Both premises assume that human goodness is an innate given, and evil is an anomaly. And both premises are heartily embraced by American humanism.

The Reformation, on the other hand, espoused a much darker reality, drawing not from Graeco-Roman writers, but from the Hebrew Scriptures, with their strong emphasis on the fall and depravity of man. While the Reformers believed that man was capable of goodness and some degree of virtue, they also believed that man innately hated God, and (to use the symbols of the fall), preferred the trees of the garden to the presence of the Gardener. Man's desire to be God so warped his nature that his animosity to God could not be overcome from within, but required an act of God from without. Repentance became a gift.

Enter Grace. In the beginning of his believing, grace begins to work in the Christian, slowly changing him, calling him, lifting him up in failure, working contrary to the human expectation of spiritual strength by being "made perfect in weakness." In Reformation thought, evil is "normal," and grace, while not an anomaly, is certainly alien. In the end, all of creation will thrive and worship God by his grace alone.

And as far as human cultures are concerned, that which keeps evil in a culture from being as evil as it can be is only grace (sometimes spoken of as "common grace"). God will restrain evil by common grace, or loosen its bonds as he sees fit. A culture is as much in the hands of God and his grace as the individual heart. When common grace is lessened, man has an opportunity (which he will ignore) to see himself.

So, is there anything practical in forgotten histories and movements, any application? Well, Americans will automatically run to one world-view or the other when asking something as contemporary as "Why Sandy Hook?" Renaissance man (whether or not he holds to the name) will assume the goodness of man, puzzle over the anomaly, and blame anything but the heart of man. It is our structures and our institutions that contain the seeds of evil. Gun control will fix us. Better mental health care will fix us. Armed school guards will fix us. Government will fix us. More legally responsible school administrators will fix us. The trees of the garden will fix us. A nice apron of sewn leaves will fix us.

No one much believes the old Reformation view anymore. Most of us don't live long enough or pay attention long enough to comprehend the mystery of lawlessness. The answer to the "Why?" is Us. You and I are the problem. The very fact that we resist the implication that we are Lanza proves the rule. We contain the capacity for total absorption in self. We are Self. There is no remedy but alien grace.

I for one hope to see one more great renewal--not froth, not the gospel of the poor Jesus who knocks, hoping I'll let him in out of the cold. I opt for a renewal of brokenness, humility, repentance, real fear of an omnipotent God, gratitude for mercy, an awareness that Christ has a right to reign, a longing for grace, and an end to human presumption; I opt for another Reformation.

The Old Religon in a New World

The "denomination" in America is neither a "church" nor a "sect." Rather, it is a singular product of an environment defined by great space, an absence of formal church-state ties, and competition among many ecclesiastical bodies.

-Mark Noll

I recently finished Mark A. Noll's The Old Religion in a New World. This was a shorter abridgement of his textbook, A History of Christianity in the United States and Canada, written for a European (German) audience, and reworked for English speaking readers. It is a study of the rise of denominationalism in North America, with a look at movements (especially revivalism) and major figures from Jonathan Edwards to Joseph Smith, George Whitefield to Billy Sunday.

Noll attributed the American contribution to Christian history to the break from European conservativism, with its hereditary caste system and strong church-state connections. The other three contributors were space, race, and plurality. By far the most influential was space. The frontier, with an infinite wilderness, allowed for both break-away groups (Hutchinson, Williams), evangelistic churches with European roots (Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians), and later indigenous bodies (Campbellites, Mormons, Pentecostals), to form their own congregations. If they were faced with government interference (as in early Boston) or persecution (as was true of the Mormons in Illinois), there was always more room to find a place of rest.

The state followed this impulse for religious freedom in the Declaration’s statements about divine rights, and the Constitution’s First Amendment. Christianity in America was a new thing, with a new mind-set. The faith was, to be redundant, Americanized. And, even after the settlement of the country, this same sense of freedom and never-ending expansion is locked into the American religious psyche.

So, on a personal note: reading Noll’s book was a great review of the past. I could have wished for more interaction and even interpretation by the author, instead of the repetition of facts and numbers-- subjectivity would have been more fun than historical objectivity. I never felt bored reading this account, but I did find myself tired--worn out by the sheer volume of groups, sub-groups, splinters, imports from the old world, view-points, new indigenous movements, sects, theologies, revivals, renewals, para-church organizations, social movements, political entanglements, ethnic groups, and in some cases, just plain weirdness, all as a result of an incredible freedom never before experienced by a religious faith.

Noll pointed out that even the most stable and ancient churches are effected by Americanization. The Roman church has bent over backwards to prove that it is a patriotic member of the greater culture. It has insisted that the papacy binds the conscience of the believer in spiritual and ecclesiastical matters only; that it has no authority in political or civic issues. And we all know how seriously American Catholics take the Vatican's stance on birth control and other moral issues. Noll also predicted that, with its great influx of disenchanted evangelicals, Orthodoxy will follow the same cultural path over time.

Let me mention at least four drawbacks of the Americanization of Christianity:

1) It is almost impossible for the church to speak prophetically to the state or the general culture. This is both because it cannot agree on the prophetic word, and because the culture perceives the church as broken and inconsistent. A classic example was the defense of both abolition and slavery by Christians prior to the Civil War, using texts from the same Bible. Non-Christians witnessed literal bloodshed among members of the same faith. This attitude among unbelievers has not really changed.

2) There is no theological maturity or standard. One can join the Roman Church, a Protestant body, or the Fire Baptized Apostolic Church of God of Prophecy of the Two Seeds of Abraham. Freedom means that any Tom, Dick, or Harriett can open a storefront and proclaim whatever. Freedom remains, and mediocrity increases.

3) The Quest for the True Church is near to impossible. What new Christian can objectively find the most mature, biblical, traditional, in-step, relevant, loving, nearest-to-the-heart-of-God, Christ-centered fellowship in a potpourri of over 600 denominations, including at least 10 major varieties of Protestants (with sub-divisions), and approximately 8 Orthodox communions (most of them ethnic)?

4) Church discipline and commitment to a religious community will always be shallow, except in groups that have established closed geographic boundaries (such as the Amish in Pennsylvania). The same freedom that allowed Roger Williams to leave the Puritan experiment in Massachusetts allows me to move to the church down the street if my present church demands moral or theological accountability. It is easy to hide behind the trees in the garden and never deal with my nakedness.

These drawbacks are the fruit of freedom, and I am not sure that the antidote is old world structure or tyranny. While the price of (political) freedom is eternal vigilance, the price of religious freedom may be eternal trivialization. Or perhaps there is another, healthier, way to look at the American religious experiment.

There is a parallel between what happened in the Christian communities along the eastern coast of North America and the Big Bang. All the potential of future religious development was pressurized in those communities, and after a few preliminary probes, it erupted across a continent in a display of galaxies, nebulae, stars, planets, hot fires and cooling metals--all originating from the same source. The explosion was fed over time by waves of immigrants fleeing poverty, political oppression, and in many cases, religious persecution.

Or to put it in terms of the faith: how could the truth of God’s coming among men, his word and story, his passion, new life, and presence in his people, be contained in one set of perceptions, without exploding and re-expressing itself in myriads of ways? I cannot help but think that all the variety points to something too glorious to contain, and the multiplicity began with a single Source. An amazing story can only be told through time in hundreds of different ways.

One must settle on his own planet without forgetting that he belongs to the whole cosmos.

Chesterton on Dickens

The thing that cannot be defined is the first thing, the primary fact. It is our arms and legs, our pots and pans, that are undefinable. The undefinable is the indisputable. The man next door is undefinable, because he is too actual to be defined. And there are some spiritual things that have the same fierce and practical proximity; some to whom God is too actual to be defined.

-GK Chesterton

Just finished GK Chesterton's biography of Charles Dickens. It was a joy to read, mainly because of Chesterton's humor and style. Chesterton asserted that the greatest thing revealed by Dickens' characters is Dickens. Likewise, the greatest thing revealed in Chesterton’s biography of Dickens is Chesterton. I’ll end with some of his quotes. But first, Dickens.

According to Chesterton, Dickens was at heart a child of the (French) Revolution, and a true democrat, believing not in the equality of faceless masses, but in the intrinsic worth of every human being—combining, in fact, the brotherhood espoused by the Revolution with the Christian concept of the distinctive and expansive value of the individual.

Dickens was attacked by literary critics for his response to criticism (an interesting circle). He often rebutted with an involved defense of himself that aggravated more than soothed. America never forgave him his open hostility to American copyright laws, which he believed were robbing him of income. After all, Americans came out in droves during his tour of the country to worship his popularity, not to be slighted by him. Chesterton reminds us that Dickens never let anything go that seemed remotely like injustice, especially injustice to himself.

More importantly, Dickens was criticized for creating novels with fascinating characters within weak plots. It is certainly true that his early works (Pickwick Papers, the Christmas tales) used plot as a way to move their characters from one episode to another, while later works (David Copperfield, Bleak House) show a more mature balance of character and plot. But the criticism misses the point. We today don’t remember much about his plots, but we do remember his characters. Dickens is his characters. They are optimistic, find joy in the midst of suffering, and we never want them to die. Chesterton points out that at the end of every novel, we assume that the main characters, even Sydney Carton, live forever. That's because they get inside us.

Tragedy (as an art form) reveals that all men are alike. Even though loss and grief are borne individually, they are unwelcome reminders that we share the common experiences of our humanity. But Dickens was a humorist, and humor has the opposite effect. Men strike us as funny because they are different. And Dickens was fascinated with the differences between men. But this fascination was not condescension or arrogance. It was a robust and exhilarating joy in who individual men and women simply are.

Humanity for Dickens meant one character at a time, and he created dozens of them. They simply emerged out of his head, and had he lived indefinitely he would populated a whole planet with unique human beings. Dickens’ characters soaked into his readers and occupied their psyches. Chesterton points out that social reformers had only slight impact in Dickens’ time. It was the revelation of the poor as real individuals instead of a faceless class that brought social change in England. His characters helped change a culture because they lived in the hearts of the culture. This is the greatest justification of Dickens' work.

Now to Chesterton: Charles Dickens contains vintage Chesterton passages. Here is one describing the power of democracy in the early 19th Century, before humanism was infected with Darwinism and began its downhill slide into the survival of the fittest and social engineering:

"The spirit of the early (19th) century produced great men because it believed that men were great. It made strong men by encouraging weak men. Its education, its public habits, its rhetoric, were all addressed towards encouraging the greatness in everybody. And by encouraging the greatness in everybody, it naturally encouraged superlative greatness in some. Superiority came out of the high rapture of equality. It is precisely in this sort of passionate unconsciousess and bewildering community of thought that men do become more than themselves. No man by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature, but a man may add many cubits to his stature by not taking thought. The best men of the Revolution were simply common men at their best."

High praise for a period of history from a man who saw the late Middle Ages as the apex of human achievement. Let me close with a quote from the last page of the book. It is impossible to read this without seeing Chesterton's influence on CS Lewis:

"But we have a long way to travel before we get back to what Dickens meant: and the passage is along a rambling English road, a twisting road such as Mr. Pickwick traveled. But this at least is part of what he meant; that comradeship and serious joy are not interludes in our travel; but that rather our travels are interludes in comradeship and joy; which through God shall endure forever. The inn does not point to the road; the road points to the inn. And all roads point at last to an ultimate inn, where we shall meet Dickens and all his characters: and when we drink again it shall be from the great flagons in the tavern at the end of the world."

Heaven as an English tavern. Wonderful. We will lift our flagons and proclaim in unison, "God Bless Us, Every One!"

Book Review: Calvin and CS Lewis

Yet if he should encounter one

Of the hive’s enquiry squad

Whose work it is to find out God

And the nature of time and space,

He would put him on to the case. -Frost: “Departmental”

I just finished reading Jordan Ferrier's Calvin and CS Lewis: Solving the Riddle of the Reformation, an attempt to save Protestant theology from what the author perceives as the coercive views of John Calvin and his Reformed descendants, by a solid dose of what he calls “classical theism,” based heavily on the thought of CS Lewis.

This is an eye-opening book title for any Christian my age who cut his teeth on Lewis and the Inklings in the 1960’s and 70’s, and discovered Luther and Calvin in the throes of a later mid-life crisis. Many such Christians have by now amalgamated the two into an older man’s version of the teenager’s “whatever...,” having found more imminent concerns than predestination, such as prevailing sin and diverticulitis.

I was put off by a couple of things when I began to read Calvin and CS Lewis. One was that I have not been able to find out anything about the author. This may be owing to the fact that I read it on Kindle, and did not have access to the blurbs and biographical data that are found on the back page of most books. I also reacted to the claim to “solve the riddle of the Reformation.” Protestants have been wrinkling their foreheads and debating with some heat the mysteries of God’s sovereignty and goodness for the last 500 years, and I would personally grieve the loss of fuel for endless late night dorm room sessions over pizza (or in the 19th Century, good cigars).

Ferrier rightly avers that Calvinism is a tight theological system that will collapse if its presuppositions can be disproved. Calvin’s major premise, according to Ferrier, is that God’s sovereignty must be defended at all costs, and that God’s other attributes are in submission to it. God must be free to be sovereign, and any other sovereign, including the free will of man, is a threat to God’s freedom to be God. Lewis’ response is his classic insistence that God does good because it is good (God is “bound” to the good). This position (according to Ferrier) is anathema to Calvin, because it makes God subject to something (goodness) that is outside himself. Lewis’ response is that all goodness comes from God, and man can know good through the creation and through natural revelation, and therefore there is no real conflict between God’s goodness and his sovereignty.

Another of Calvin’s basic presuppositions is the “T” in TULIP, total depravity. I’ve always taken that term in a quantitative, not a qualitative, sense. We are not as bad as we possibly can be, but every facet of our humanity is marred and warped by “badness.” That does not mean that we are incapable on knowing or practicing the good. We simply cannot think or act perfectly. That is total depravity according to Doughty. Total depravity according to Calvin via Ferrier takes a whole new twist. According to Ferrier’s interpretation, Calvin taught that (1) whatever God does is good. (2) To deny God’s sovereignty is to deny the good. (3) Man in his denial of God’s sovereignty is incapable of knowing good or evil, because he denies good’s source (sovereignty). So therefore, (4) to disagree with Calvin’s doctrine of God’s sovereignty is proof of one’s total depravity. I find it hard to believe that Calvin in his most vitriolic mood could be that egotistical. (Pizza, anyone?) Disclaimer to Ferrier: This is my perception solely. Chalk it up to reading late at night in weak light.

Lewis, according to Ferrier (and I agree with his representation of Lewis), tried to avoid Arminianism and synergism on one hand, and what he viewed as the “coercive” (irresistible) grace taught by Calvin. Lewis came as close to Calvin as he could without relinquishing the human freedom to choose. He preferred to use the term “persuasive grace.” Lewis described his own conversion as being pursued by God, to the point that he was afraid to be alone because the Presence would come upon him. He knew with perfect certainty what he would choose before the moment of choice came, and yet knew he was poised on the razor edge of two futures. He stated that for a few moments he knew there was no real distinction between necessity and freedom. Anybody recognize how close that is to John Calvin, by a hair’s breadth? (Pizza anyone, and a good cigar?)

Theologians have often made a distinction between the essential and economic attributes of God: those that are essential belong to the Trinity as it exists in itself, and those that are economic are attributes of God in relation to the creation. Love, for instance, is an essential attribute, while mercy is an economic extension of love to creatures. Ferrier does make an interesting observation at this point. Goodness is an essential attribute of God, while sovereignty only exists if there is something over which to exercise it (and therefore is an economic attribute). Ferrier hints that goodness may be the essential cause that expresses itself through sovereignty. That is a reversal of Calvin’s (supposed) position. I can’t take that any further, but it’s worth some future contemplation. Here endeth the review. * * * * * * * * * * *

Here beginneth some personal comments. I like John Calvin. Most of his readers will insist that he gets bad press. The man suffered from physical ailments, and still preached and wrote voluminously. There is deep humility and brokenness in him when he speaks of the grace and mercy of God in Christ. I will admit that he gets a little riled about the Roman hierarchy, whom he affectionately refers to as “swine who spew venom from swollen cheeks,” or the mass, in which the “priest chirps and mutters, while the people look on in dumb amazement.” One must remind himself that the man was a product of his age. His Institutes are divided into sections that are easily read in one sitting, and can be read devotionally, if you dare. I remember reading an old Puritan who said he never went to bed without consuming “a morsel of Calvin.” He is worth it. Remember you have to wade through some brush to get to a picnic.

And who of my generation can deny the influence of CS Lewis? I studied English Literature under Clyde Kilby, who knew Lewis personally. I always felt one removed from him, sort of like having a cousin who once touched Elvis’ elbow. What Calvin did for me theologically, Lewis did aesthetically. He brought the world of pagan myth under Christ’s dominion and helped me to understand that truth is truth wherever it appears. He also taught me the importance of story as a means of comprehending life and reality. I can’t imagine a generation of Christians who haven’t fed at his table.

Whatever their differences, I have internalized both these men, contradictions and all, and so far I have not imploded. They are pieces of my life. Lastly, as to the whole free will-election issue, who on earth even wants to try and resolve it? I would like to suggest another starting point than our usual fascination with what God can and cannot do. Most debate on the subject ends up with questions like, “Can God make something so powerful that even he cannot move it?” Lewis’ response to the question would be, “Nonsense is always nonsense.” I am not sure that beginning with abstractions about the attributes of God is helpful. Somehow the debate carries us further away from God than drawing us closer to him. At some point the discussion morphs from a pursuit of truth to the need to be right (a manifestation of depravity, by the way).

Someone I read, I think Luther, said that instead of beginning a discussion of these things with what we barely know (God, and the nature of time and space), we should begin with what we do know, which is Christ. He is the clearest revelation of the nature of God that we have. (One might say that deep questions about God have their beginning in soteriology.) And not only with Christ, but a personal, even subjective, understanding of Christ. The first question is not about the essential and economic attributes of God; the first question is, “What has Christ done for me?” Let’s look at that for a moment.

Christ became incarnate. He became incarnate for me. What does it say about my predicament that God went to all the trouble of taking on human flesh? This is going far beyond sending me a message telling me to change my behavior. Believe me, I know the difference between an e-mail from my manager and a personal visit to my office. The visit means serious business. So the incarnation says something to me about depravity that is far deeper than a need for simple reform.

Christ left us his teachings in the Gospels. But he is not merely a new Moses, with a new set of precepts for living. The teachings of Jesus are, in fact, alarming. Lust equals adultery. Anger equals murder. Unless you do it to one of the least of these, my brethren.... The teachings of Jesus offer little comfort. They tear away human pride and leave us exposed. Again, what does that

tell me about myself?

Christ suffered and died, and rose again, on my behalf. What does that say about me? My need must at least be commensurate with the solution. That means that I must die (or am already dead), and must be resurrected. There is nothing in me that can produce either. With that in mind, at the point of conversion, who takes the initiative? Confronted with my need, do I long to be coerced? (Oh, yes!) Or am I under the influence of a persistent persuasion that waits til I am at the point of no return? Ultimately, like Lewis, I can find no distinction in my own experience between coercion and persuasion, between necessity and freedom.

I will leave the topic here on this fine edge, where all the theology ever written is condensed into inapproachable light.

Blessing, y’all.

The Garden and Fallen Culture

Some thoughts on Genesis, the garden, and fallen culture, not thought through, but "wondering" me: Adam was given a mandate to "replenish the earth and subdue it." The context of this mandate was the garden, which was to be "dressed" and "kept" (served and protected). There is a beautiful fragility to this. The mandate meant dominion, not domination. Adam was to extend the boundaries of the garden over the whole earth. That means that, while science and technology would certainly have increased in an unfallen race, the mission which they served was primarily (for want of a better word) agricultural.

This garden theme reoccurs in Ezekiel, whose eschatological new temple sends forth a river whose banks are lined with trees whose leaves are for healing. The same image reoccurs in Revelation. Jesus spent his final hours praying in a garden, and was buried in one. When he emerged in resurrection glory as the second Adam, it is no accident that he was mistaken for a gardener (we are his "field," his "vineyard").

It was a bit of a shock to discover that, after the fall, the development of what we would call culture or civilization was accomplished by the Cainites, who created a civilization based on human effort and hubris ("and Cain went out from the presence of the Lord"). This is not to say that the dominion mandate was abrogated, but it was certainly marred. Domination was the rule, not dominion. The godly seed (the ante and post-diluvian patriarchs) were hidden and protected by God within the greater culture, like fifth columnists. They contained the seed that would bring forth Israel, and eventually, Christ.(This “secret” working of God through history is another “wondering.”)

Genesis 4:20-22 describes the emergence of the Cainite civilization. Jabal was the father of “such as dwell in tents and have cattle;” Jubal was the “father of all such and handle the harp and organ;” Tubal-cain was “an instructer... in brass and iron.” Animal husbandry, the arts, and industry. Notice the absence of farming and agriculture.

Of course there were farmers and crops at the time. What is interesting is the biblical emphasis. Civilization as it is described in Genesis required gathering together, the formation of cities, and the evolution of a governing oligarchy (domination). The Adamic garden mandate, on the other hand, required scattering

(a foreshadowing of the Great Commission).

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. But there is this association of gentle care of the earth with the Sethite (Judeo-Christian) line, and hard industry, smoke, and close quarters with the Cainite. I recognize that agriculture is a symbol for other realities (our hearts, the church). But there is a greater earthiness to the eschaton than our vision of little wings and clouds will allow. I remember back in Church of the Comforter days one of our members describing our work in the New Creation as freeing the earth from the tons of asphalt and power lines that bind her, and recreating her as a garden. At the time I thought he was indulging in some hippie fantasy. Now I’m not so sure. Certainly the New Jerusalem is pictured as a city (a very symbolic city), but (also certainly) there is work to be done outside her walls.

Enlightening the Eyes

The commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.
-Psalm 19:8b

From the root tsa-wah, "commandment" carries the common meaning of orders from a superior to a servant. But it has other nuances. It overlaps with "instruction," in the student-teacher relationship. Jesus often referred to the body of teaching that he passed on to his disciples as "my commandments." In the Old Testament it sometimes referred to a literal set of instructions given with a commandment: Moses was told to construct the tabernacle and given a set of plans. Likewise Noah had a blueprint of the ark along with the command to build it. In other words, God provides what we need to fulfill what he requires.

The commandments of God are “pure” (ba-rar), a word most commentators associate with the purity of ore or metal. In that sense it can mean “unalloyed,” and carries with it the secondary meaning “bright” or “shiny.” In other words, the commandments of God are not deceitful, nor designed to mislead or trick us. They are straightforward, backed up with whatever instructions we need, and can be trusted to bring us life.

These pure commandments are said to “enlighten the eyes” to make the eyes bright, and a source of light themselves. Jesus recapitulates this idea in Matthew 6:22: The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light. We tend to read this text negatively: Beware of what you see, lest it sully your heart and spread evil in the inner man. True enough. But the point of the text in Psalm 19 is that the commandments of the Lord fill our eyes with a light that spreads to our whole being. It is not an injunction to look away, but to behold a pure beauty that transforms.

At this point it is good to remember that Christ is the “fulfillment of the Law to all who believe.” We are admonished in Scripture to look to Jesus, “the author and finisher of our faith.” John tells us that when we see him at the eschaton that we will become like him, “for we will see him as he is.” It is the opaque beatific vision (that will only be complete at his coming) that transforms us. Any attempt in the New Covenant age to fulfill the commandments in our own strength is to look inward, not outward.

My pastor made an alarming observation a few weeks ago. He was analyzing the evangelical obsession with “total surrender,” the endless altar calls to give all to God, the striving to “yield our all.” He stated that we simply can’t. It is a hopeless quest. No man can in himself give himself wholly to God. The very quest takes our eyes off the only One who totally surrendered himself to God on our behalf. It is reliance upon his work and his love for us that “enlightens” our eyes, and floods our hearts, not with our striving, but with his presence, and with his surrender.

The Precepts of the Lord

The precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart.
-Psalm 19: 8a

My word study book tells me that the Hebrew word for "precepts" (piqudi) is one of the most difficult words relating to the commandments to translate. Its root meaning is to "supervise" or "oversee." Precepts, therefore, are guidelines or responsibilities given by an authority figure to a subordinate, and it can also mean the subsequent visitation and inspection of the subordinate by his superior. The inspection can be both benevolent or harsh, merciful or wrathful, depending on the subordinate's faithfulness to his responsibilities. One cannot help but think of a drill sergeant, and shudder.

But we are delivered from the drill sergeant image by the next word. God's precepts are said to be "straight" (yashar--also translated "upright" or "blameless"). The root meaning is to clear a pathway (or road) of obstacles so that travel is as easy as possible. While it is often used to mean the preparation of our hearts for God's visitation, the opposite is also true. Proverbs 3: 5-6 comes to mind:

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and do not lean to your own understanding.
In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make straight your paths."

In this sense, God Himself prepares us for his visitation, which becomes a joy rather than an object of dread. The Overseer takes upon himself the task that we in our weakness cannot complete. One thinks of Augustine's prayer, "Grant what Thou commandest, and then command what Thou wilt." St. John, in a New Testament context, reminds us that the love of God so transforms us that "his commandments are not burdensome," and that we "overcome the world" because Christ has removed the obstacles between us and the Father.

Because God visits to us, removing all obstacles as He comes, we no longer dread the visitation, but long for it. Therefore the Psalmist ends this line with "rejoicing the heart." We joy in His finished work, and rest, because we "were straying like sheep, but have now returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of our souls."

More on Decadence

For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end--it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay.
-Habakkuk 2:3

I recently saw a segment of a TV show in which a character who was running for office was practicing a speech. It went something like this: "We must press on to the fulfillment of the American dream by recapturing our core values and making sure that all Americans are free from want in their quest for that dream.” When asked what that meant, he replied, “Who cares? It keeps me from having to deal with sticky issues that might cost me the election.”

This is a parody of what we all know: political language is becoming increasingly decadent, meaning that familiar words have strong emotional, but weak intellectual, content. I wrote about this in more detail in my 2008 blogs. Those dealt with Rosenstock’s analysis of what is necessary for cultural revolutions (good or bad) to occur: decadence of language, followed by a search for an articulate word, followed by the bringing forward of a lost word into the future. We are in a period of decadence in America, in the culture, but also in the church. Both are looking for an articulate word.

I know I’ve beaten this decadence/articulation horse to death. Two things have revived it in me. One is, of course, the fact that this is an election year. I am so cynical that I don’t want to hear the debates. Is there a real native son out there who isn’t mouthing the old mantras? I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way.

The other reason I can’t leave this horse alone is a well done ad by the Orthodox Church that has been popping up on Facebook. It reminded me of Nathan Bedford Forrest’s explanation of why he won so many battles: “Get there fustest with the mostest.” Orthodoxy is telling us that whatever doctrine or experience we may have, it has beat us to it. They are the fustest with the mostest. I have no bone to pick with Orthodoxy. I like to think that my life as a Christian has been enriched by exposure to it. What I do roll my eyes over is another call to the True Church. Rome has been doing the same thing in its ads lately, though they are aimed more at lapsed Catholics than at converts. Salt Lake too is in the ad business.

All this proves that we are in a decadent period that is experiencing the loss of articulation, and we are trying to fill the void with what is at hand. The word, which is old and new at the same time, has not come forth yet, that is, the word that takes the church beyond her divisions and pre-conceptions. All this foment is proof of its absence. Our assumption is that we have it hidden somewhere and have some control over it. It certainly will come, because the word is the Word, but it will come in its own time and on its own terms. Prayer may be more useful now than a quest.

The Faithful Witness

The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.
-Psalm 19: 7B

The word "testimony" ('aduth) is often a synonym for "law" in the Old Testament. It comes from a Hebrew word that means to repeat or reiterate--a courtroom term that described the repetitions (for emphasis) of a witness's statement about an event. It applies to God's witness to Himself in His character and in His actions. That witness can be His own word as expressed in the law: the Ten Commandments kept in the ark of the covenant were referred to as the "tablets of the testimony." It can be a divine symbol existing on the physical level: the tent in the wilderness was referred to as the "tabernacle of witness." The repetition of the law's witness is also reflected in nature in this same Psalm ("Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge").

This piling up, as it were, of witnesses to God and by God--from God's existence within Himself, to His witness in law and gospel, to the witness of man-made symbols, to the witness of nature--expresses a pleading earnestness spoken over and over again to man, who prefers to close his eyes and put his hands over his ears. It is a cry of grace and a threat of judgment.

The Psalmist calls this testimony "sure" (ne'e-manah--from which we derive amen). At a physical level, the word can mean "steady," "fixed," "confirmed," "supported," "established." At a deeper level, it can be translated "trustworthy" or "faithful." It seems almost redundant to use such an adjective to support God's witness to Himself. And yet there again is this repetitive pressure to convince man that God is, and that He is true, and that He is faithful to what He is, and to His truth. It is the confirmation of what is already confirmed, a shout over the din of the fall.

The Sure Testimony is said to "make wise the simple." How? First, we need to remember that "wisdom" is not just intellectual knowledge, but a type of living learned by repentance, by faith, and often by suffering. The second clue is in the word "simple." The Hebrew pe-thi comes from a root meaning "open." The simple person, then, is open to everything and anything, and has no stability, direction, or inner guard (discernment). Interestingly, the cognate verb form of this noun means to "deceive" or "seduce."

When the serpent in the garden tempted Eve, he called 'aduth ne'emanah into question. First he attacked the witness ("has God said?"), and then God's trustworthiness ("God knows...you will be like God...."). When the foundation crumbled, Eve became the first open-minded person on the planet. Since then human independence has become both a virtue and a bondage.

The tempter is described as cunning, or "subtle" ('arum). This is the same word that is translated "naked" in the previous verse, speaking of Adam and Eve. While Hebrew scholars agree that the two words come from different roots, it is hard to believe that the author of Genesis did not intend a play on words when he placed them in such close proximity. The tempter hid behind his deceit in the same way that Adam and Eve hid behind the trees of the garden. His subtlety was really nakedness. That nakedness was exposed when God prophesied that he would be rendered powerless by One who would crush his head. That one would be the Wisdom of God who would make wise the simple, the Faithful Witness who's faithfulness is proved by the destruction of death, and by his control of human history (Revelation 1: 5).

The Perfect Law: Psalm 19:7a

The law of the LORD is perfect, reviving the soul.


Torah is a broad term to define. While it is usually translated "law," it carries a broader meaning, closer to "instruction." Therefore the Pentateuch is Torah, but the term can include the whole Tanakh (Old Testament), as well as the act of studying it, as in "doing Torah." And doing Torah can be relational as well as intellectual--relational in its interaction with other students (horizontal), and also with God himself (vertical). In that sense Torah is a way of life.

The author of Psalm 19 describes Torah as "perfect"(a derivative of thamam)--another word with multiple meanings, encompassing the idea of "mature," "complete," "full," "reaching a pre-determined end;" as well as "blameless" and "unblemished." One would expect the Septuagint (Greek translation) to use the word teleios, picking up on the idea of completeness. But instead, the translators chose the word amomos: "spotless," "unblemished," a word most readily associated with animal sacrifice.

It is hard for a Christian not to recognize Torah's personification of itself in Christ. He is "the way, the truth, and the life." He is the "end of the law for righteousness to everyone who believes," and "the lamb without blemish or spot."

Furthermore, the unblemished Torah is described as "reviving the soul." The Hebrew word for "revive" is a derivative of shuv, a common verb meaning to"return" or "come back," or, in King James, "convert." The response to unblemished Torah is the restoration of a broken or lost soul.

What, then, is the connection between the perfect Torah and a revived or repentant soul? Keil, in his commentary on the Psalms, points to the attractiveness of Torah, which is "spotless and harmless, absolutely well-meaning, and altogether directed towards the well-being of man." Torah is both beautiful and trustworthy. But does the depraved soul always respond to beauty and faithfulness? The commentator goes on the say (I paraphrase) that Torah "imparts newness of life, and quickens the soul." This is closer to the truth. It is Torah itself that revives. There is within the personified Torah of the new covenant a power to draw a broken soul to itself (himself)--a magnet with the power to work the sought conversion.

Any man who approaches Torah runs the risk of being apprehended by it. Any man who beholds the face of Christ, no matter how faintly, is in danger of being swept away into the whirlpool of conversion. It is also true that every Christian man knows the power of Christ to shatter old images of Himself and bring the believer into deeper waters. It is because "the law of the lord is perfect, reviving the soul."

Faith and Fury

Christianity got over the difficulty of combining furious opposites, by keeping them both, and keeping them both furious.
G.K. Chesterton

A few days ago I attended a funeral at a home for a 6 months old child who died unexpectedly in his sleep. It was an intense experience. There was mourning and crying, evangelism and repentance, love and embracing. There was none of the distant “I’m here to pay my respects” atmosphere of a lot of American funerals. It was, well, real.

One of the things that struck me was that no one questioned that God was responsible for the death of this child. At the same time, those present were seeking God for comfort. The Taker of life was appealed to as the Giver of comfort. There was peace in that house. But don’t misunderstand me: the peace in that home was not an easy peace, but a peace that came from the imponderable balance of God as King, and God as Father. There was a certain fury in it. And that reminded me of Chesterton’s words.

Christianity has always had vigorous contradictions in its deepest mysteries, and the poles of each contradiction are heresies. God is three Persons in one Essence. But He is neither three Gods nor one Person in three modes. The truth is in the wonder that is neither. The Son of God is two natures in one Person. But He is neither an amalgam of two natures, nor two Persons in one body. The truth is in the wonder that is neither.

The fact is that the great mysteries invoke not understanding, but a confession of faith. The early creeds do not begin with “I comprehend,” but with credo (“I believe”). And I like to think that the church of those days did not mumble the credo, but spoke it with profundity and energy.

I remember teaching a discipleship class years ago in Guatemala. Somehow we got on the subject of the attributes of God. I went to the board, and at one end wrote Sobierno (sovereignty), and at the other Bondad (goodness), and asked if the students could reconcile the two, or if they had a favorite. There ensued the usual heated argument that arises over these two poles. One side accused the other of believing in an arbitrary tyrant, and, conversely, of believing in a weak and confused God controlled by chance and the will of man. We finally concluded that one could not stand without the other, and both needed to be confessed furiously.

I have now lapsed into theology, and from theology into abstraction. But what I saw the other night was not abstract. It was the reality being lived out. I think I understand better now what Jesus meant when he said, “Until now the kingdom of God suffers violence, and the violent take it by force.”

Athens and Jerusalem

I recently read John Joseph's Collins’ Between Athens and Jerusalem, in preparation for a New Testament course I'll be teaching in a few weeks. Collin's book is a study of the attempts of the Jewish Diaspora to offer an apologetic for their faith in a Greek environment during the inter-testament period (@200 BC to 100 AD), particularly in Alexandria. He analyses a number of pseudo-graphical and apocryphal texts from the period, with some references to Philo.

Let me try to summarize, though I run the risk of over-simplifying: the Greek thinking class in Egypt during the Ptolemaic period was philosophical and in pursuit of the good life based on reason. Many of them leaned towards monotheism and were fairly moral. Jewish thinkers, who were driven by a need to be accepted in the culture, assumed Greek categories and attempted to mold their own tradition into those. Therefore the Torah was presented as a superior philosophy, and obedience to the commandments was a means to discovering the “good, the true, and the beautiful.” Traditions that made the Jews unique, such as circumcision and dietary laws, were played down or not mentioned at all.

How successful Jewish apologetic writings actually were is debatable. Collins believes that much of the attempt involved preaching to the choir. There was always the issue of whether Jews should be included in the Greek upper and middle classes, or in the Egyptian lower class. The former was generally true under the Ptolemies, the latter under Roman rule. While there were notable conversions to Judaism during the period, most apologetic literature was designed to help the Jew define his own place in the society while holding to his traditions.

This is a fascinating period of history that has led me up a number of rabbit trails that may or may not be relevant. Follow if you wish.

First, it is easy in hindsight to condemn the Jewish writers of this period for blatant syncretism. The Hasidim and the Pharisees in Palestine certainly thought so. We see a result of this in the conflict between Greek and Aramaic speaking Christians in the early church. But syncretism is always easier to spot from outside a culture than within it. Consider the overlap of the “American Way of Life” and Christianity in our own time. We are far too close to both to untangle them. Perhaps we need African and Asian eyes to gain perspective.

Second, those centuries are in some ways a microcosm of western civilization (even down to our day) which can be defined in terms of the relationship of Hellenism and Hebraism. In an essay by that name in Culture and Anarchy, Matthew Arnold defined both: “The uppermost idea of Hellenism is to see things as they really are; the uppermost idea of Hebraism is conduct and obedience.” Both seek to attain salvation, one by right thinking, the other by right action.

Arnold saw the Renaissance of the 14th and 15th Centuries as the rediscovery of Hellenism in what was a Hebraic culture, followed by a Hebraic reaction in the Reformation, followed by the twin antagonists--the Enlightenment and Puritanism, both of which influenced our American founding documents. We’ve never quite settled whether our founding fathers were Christians or humanists. I’ve read books assigning them to both categories, written with great conviction and copious footnotes. My favorite was the tongue-in-cheek wag who gave up and described them as “Evangelical, Bible-believing deists.” My point here is not to discredit one or the other, but to suggest that both are alive and well with us, and are still intertwined in our culture, mirrored in our “conservative” and “liberal” terminology.

Third: “Morph” is an interesting new word in the American vocabulary. It has a more sinister tone than “metamorphasize.” One thinks of shape changers and zombies. It conveys the idea of change, not usually for the better. It also conveys the notion that that which “morphs” contains within itself the seed of its own change, usually for the worse, though I suppose something can morph “up.” It has a fatalistic tone. Anyway--after that digression--I was struck in Collins’ book with how both Hellenism and Hebraism morph into other forms through history.

For instance, Collins spends a good deal of time on the transition in Greek thought from rationalism to mysticism, how even in Plato there is a personification of philosophy that leads to the exaltation of the logos or sophia. There is a steady progression from the pursuit of pure Forms to the chain of being that leads to Light in later Gnosticism. Some Jewish writers of the period capitalized on this “ascent” and equated the Light with the Giver of Torah. This “morphing” from reason to secret revelation of the divine (from science to alchemy) reoccurs in history. Consider modern rationalistic evolutionists whose description of the life force (elan vital) is loaded with so much awe that it borders on worship. Whew. I’m not sure I can go any further with that.

But having gone there, I suppose it’s necessary to ask if Hebraism can morph. Pure Hebraism, in my mind, was never really meant to be a religion of salvation by law, but of love and grace, as the believer was forced by his failures in his duties to seek for supernatural intervention. Consider that while Psalm 119 is packed with synonyms for “commandment,” it is equally packed with imperatives like “teach me.” “revive me,” “open my eyes.” Without this craving for grace, Hebraism becomes self-righteous legalism, which is exactly what it morphs into. The church is certainly no stranger to it.

So, I suppose, as Hellenism and Hebraism morph into their mature forms, thinking westerners will be confronted with either mysticism or legalism, a poor choice.

Fourth: Let me at this point speak as a Christian, since we are dealing with world-views that deal with salvation. The problem with Hellenism and Hebraism, rationalism and action, mysticism and legalism, is that they all involve human effort in the attainment of whatever “salvation” might mean, whether it be eternal life or a peaceful existence in this one. Even Matthew Arnold, whose bias is definitely towards Hellenism, admits that both views ignore the sinfulness of sin. Reason is both finite and twisted. Dutiful action before God is always tainted with subtle self-centeredness. Both fail to deliver what they promise.

I would like to be able to say that Christianity offers a way out. But the fact is that Christianity has been as influenced by Hellenism and Hebraism as any institution in western culture. The Alexandrian school of Christianity continued the allegorical method of Philo, and I am not sure whether the Roman Church has yet decided whether Origen was a heretic. Synergistic legalism has created long lists of do’s and don’ts that rival the Pharisaic code of Jesus’ day. Christianity can almost be defined by its relationship to Hellenism and Hebraism (or their conflict) in any point of its history.

So instead of considering Christianity, let‘s consider its Head. There we begin to get some light. At that point the issue becomes one of soteriology. If my reason is flawed, how do I find wisdom? If I am cursed with pride and selfishness, where do I find the power to fulfill my duty? And here we move from ideas to direction--Hellenism and Hebraism both call me up. But the glory of the Gospel is that God comes down. Wisdom comes to me. Power to obey comes to me. God takes the initiative in a world that has exhausted its own. The embodiment of all that Hellenism and Hebraism ever wished to be becomes incarnate in a world that cannot find up. The truth is backwards.

“Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God by the foolishness of preaching to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek after wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.”

-1 Corinthians 1:20-25 (ESV)