Thursday, May 30, 2013

Limits and Limitations

This I have to say to polyamory, postmodernism, those who think form doesn't matter in poetry or art, and to anyone who might be wondering, "Is God's law GOOD for me? It sounds sorta restrictive." Or, to anyone who might think, "If I accept the Christian creed, with all of its definite statement, it will limit my freedom of mind." Or, to anyone who believes gender roles are necessarily constrictive. Or, to anyone who believes that real freedom means freedom from all limits...

This is say: Da Vinci painted within the lines. Shakespeare used the form of the Sonnet. Far from stifling creativity, and free expression, form and order, and set limits, brought full blossom to the genius of these men.

This also I say, or rather, this is what someone else said that I agree with: limits are not the same as limitations. Limits provide an environment, the only possible environment, for playfulness.

***

But to “play with words” within the traditions of theology and liturgy is not to strive for innovation. The theologian or liturgist, as Stanley has also taught us, is not charged with the task of originality, but with that of fidelity to a living tradition that has some parameters, to a language with rules of speech. There are things we know we can’t say—like, for instance, “that majestic mountain over there is God”—but such limits are not limitations. Rather, they are, as Wendell Berry observes, “inducements to formal elaboration and elegance, to fullness of relationship and meaning.”

From, “And God Said . . .”: Creation, Word-Care, and the Care of the World, Debra Dean Murphy.

***

Those countries in Europe which are still influenced by priests, are exactly the countries where there is still singing and dancing and coloured dresses and art in the open-air. Catholic doctrine and discipline may be walls; but they are the walls of a playground. Christianity is the only frame which has preserved the pleasure of Paganism. We might fancy some children playing on the flat grassy top of some tall island in the sea. So long as there was a wall round the cliff’s edge they could fling themselves into every frantic game and make the place the noisiest of nurseries. But the walls were knocked down, leaving the naked peril of the precipice. They did not fall over; but when their friends returned to them they were all huddled in terror in the centre of the island; and their song had ceased.

Chesterton, "Authority and the Adventurer," Orthodoxy.



***

All next day at Beacon House there was a crazy sense that it was everybody's birthday. It is the fashion to talk of institutions as cold and cramping things. The truth is that when people are in exceptionally high spirits, really wild with freedom and invention, they always must, and they always do, create institutions. When men are weary they fall into anarchy; but while they are gay and vigorous they invariably make rules. This, which is true of all the churches and republics of history, is also true of the most trivial parlour game or the most unsophisticated meadow romp. We are never free until some institution frees us; and liberty cannot exist till it is declared by authority. Even the wild authority of the harlequin Smith was still authority, because it produced everywhere a crop of crazy regulations and conditions. He filled every one with his own half-lunatic life; but it was not expressed in destruction, but rather in a dizzy and toppling construction. Each person with a hobby found it turning into an institution. Rosamund's songs seemed to coalesce into a kind of opera; Michael's jests and paragraphs into a magazine. His pipe and her mandoline seemed between them to make a sort of smoking concert.
The bashful and bewildered Arthur Inglewood almost struggled against his own growing importance. He felt as if, in spite of him, his photographs were turning into a picture gallery, and his bicycle into a gymkhana. But no one had any time to criticize these impromptu estates and offices, for they followed each other in wild succession like the topics of a rambling talker.

Chesterton, Manalive, Chapter III, "The Banner of Beacon."

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

You Can't Legislate Morality?

CWK

"You can't legislate morality."

In the sense this cliche is usually intended, it is utterly false. The only thing you can -- I better say should -- legislate is morality. You can legislate morality in this sense, in the only sense that matters: you can institute laws that encourage a certain morality (via rewards), and discourage certain immorality (via punishments).

Laws against child abuse are legislating morality; they are saying, "Child abuse is wrong and immoral, and destructive to children, and our nation." Every law is a statement of what a people considers right and wrong, moral and immoral. Or else, we have no basis for any law whatsoever. Morality, it turns out, is the only thing you can legislate.

What you can't, or at least shouldn't, legislate is all the things outside right/wrong and moral/immoral.

You shouldn't pass a law which dictates that men must eat peanut butter every day. You shouldn't pass a law that punishes men for serving large cups of soda (sorry Mayor Bloomberg). You shouldn't pass a law that says everyone must wear blue on Tuesday. You should not pass a law which condemns, with a 5 year prison sentence, wearing white after labor day. You should not (even though I hate to type it) institute a law which requires every restaurant serve sweet tea, Southern Style, or else face a $1000.00 fine. You should not pass such laws because these are issues not of morality/immorality, but rather taste and personal preference and geographical whim. When it comes to our nation's laws, we should indeed demand freedom. Freedom for individual taste; what we can never demand is freedom for individual morality. There's no such such as individual morality, "What's right for you is right for you." Morality, by definition, stands above every individual.

Morality is above and beyond individuals, time, and place. Taste, on the other hand, is tied to time and place and space. Morality concerns the eternal truths which hover above our world; it is the moral map once for all given to man no matter when a man lives, and no matter where a man may happen to be on the geographical map. Morality never changes no matter the time; taste does, all the time. Morality is not tied to any place; taste is a dot on the map, and varies from dot to dot, and town to town.

I grew up in the South; there, we drink sweet tea, and hardly anything else. I love sweet tea, and consider it truly the nectar of the gods. Imagine my surprise when I landed in St. Louis and discovered many restaurants serve not sweet tea. I was startled; I was confused. I had every right to love sweet tea; what I did not have any right to was a demand that everyone else love sweet tea. It turns out many people don't; I can't understand them -- but, and this is the really important thing, I also can't condemn them. They are not immoral for drinking tea sans sugar. You can't legislate taste.

Now, if I went into a restaurant and ordered sweet tea, and was rebuffed, and then I decided I would express my dismay by stealing 100.00 from the cash register, I'd probably be arrested. If I told the arresting officer, "This is no different from my disdain for unsweetened tea! How dare you arrest me. It is my personal choice to steal..." well, this argument wouldn't get me very far. Why not? It turns out, you can legislate morality.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Reading Around The Lines

CWK

Here's a pretty common conversation circa the year of our Lord, 2013:

"So you don't believe in X? Your problem is you don't want people to be free. You enemy of liberty! You spread hate. You want to interfere in people's private lives. Why can't you just let people be happy and do what they please?"

Take, for example, my last post on the 50 Shades phenomenon. In speaking out against the rise of slavery intimacy, I have opened myself up to the above accusations. Boy, have I.

Here's my reply: You, my friend, also don't want people to be free. You are also an enemy of liberty. You spread hate. You want to interfere in people's private lives. Why can't you just let people be happy and do what they please?

To which, I am answered: "How?"

To which, I retort: You think child molestation should be illegal, and punishable, right? You also believe rape to be a serious and horrific crime: a crime that should be punished severely, right? And, you would be squarely against, say, a father marrying his own daughter. Right? Why, o why, do you hate child molesters? Rapists? Why must you spread hate like this? Why can't you just let them be happy? Why can't men just do as they please.

(Silence)

I continue: So, I'm right in saying that you also believe there are certain expressions of sexuality that are just wrong no matter the place or time, and no matter who consents, and no matter if it makes people happy?

"Yes."

I continue: You don't really believe that everyone should just do what they please. You don't believe that anyone and everyone who wants to get married should. You don't believe that any and everyone should just do what they want in private.

"Well, no, I don't."

I conclude: You don't believe the very creed you are trying to press on me. You don't believe your own beliefs. You yourself draw moral lines on sexuality; you yourself condemn certain expressions of sexual desire and practice. Therefore, you can no longer use the cliches about freedom and privacy and happiness in this dialogue. You're going to have to find a different ground to attack me on. Now, I'm listening. Attack away.




Tuesday, May 14, 2013

True Christianity

CWK

At present, truth is off the table. Most speak of their "perspective" or their "viewpoint" as if there were no such thing as a real solid truth outside them, out in the world: as if, every truth was as small as a dot on a map, and every map consisted only of disconnected plots of earth: lonely cities which never touch one another.

Nothing could be more shocking to our pluralistic ears than this: Christianity is true.

Some assertions are true; some are false. Truth gives life and good guidance. The opposite of such truth is error, and dangerous. Christianity is true; all views and claims that contradict it are false.

I noticed, in college, that Christians were most often "hard scientists" -- engineers, especially, seemed to gravitate toward Christianity. When I considered this, it made perfect sense: these are people who believe in truth and order.

There is a problem when we begin to speak about Christianity being true: namely, not many know what true Christianity is: not many know what Christianity actually teaches, what the Bible actually says, or what Jesus actually came to do.

Christianity is true. But, what is true Christianity? I've met numerous people who think they know what Christianity teaches, and time and again, found Christ being slandered. Christianity has been cast in a thousand different roles, some fashionable, some offensive, to modern ears. Unbelievers will attack Christ and His Gospel as a strawman, and misrepresent the teachings of the Scriptures. In some cases, they will assert as Christianity the very opposite of what Christianity actually asserts. In other cases, they will try and found a heresy of their own only to find out Christianity came long before them, and stamped their assertion as orthodoxy.

We commonly hear, "There's no truth." To which the reply is in order, "Is that true?" If the respondent answers affirmatively, "Yes," well then, there must be truth after all.

True Christianity is True.

Meant To Be

CWK

I don't think any one thing is meant to be; I think every thing is meant to be. I can't pick out this or that moment as "meant-to-be" anymore than I can pick out a brush stroke from a painting of Da Vinci and characterize it as "meant-to-be."

Everything is meant to be: nothing happens by accident, without cause, or without purpose. There is no such thing as a purely random event, or happening. Everything is meant to be: God created all things purposefully, with a purpose in mind; everything has a goal, an end. All things fit together: the universe is not a riddle of disconnected puzzle pieces from a million different puzzles. The universe, and all within, including all human history, are part of one master puzzle: The Glory of God. There is intention, control, a plan, an end, and means to an end: and over all these God reigns.

I believe in the total sovereignty of God over all events in all of history. Nothing escapes his notice, or His permission, or His Sovereign sway. This is the most comforting truth imaginable because it is true. Even evil men, in their most dastardly schemes, are caught up in God's scheme. They cannot break out of His sovereign power; they can only advance, even against their will, His Will. O, why, O why, do the nations rage, and evil men fume and foment? Why, O, Why? The Lord is seated on His throne in the Heavens, and He laughs (Ps. 2). Such men are caught in the net of God's control and power, and they can't get out. God has the first, and the middle, and the last word. Also, and this is sweet comfort for the Christian, I am in the all-powerful hands of my Father in Heaven, and so is my life. I can't mess up God's plan; even should I try (and I wouldn't): the counsel of the Lord will stand, and all His will will be done (Proverbs 19.21)."

A friend recently said to me, "It must be nice to believe that. It must be comforting."
"No," I responded, "It would only be comforting if it were TRUE. And, it is true."

There is order and design to everything. When I consider the evolutionary perspective on life, the supposition that everything happens by chance, that there is no original order or Order-er -- I wonder how such a person knows which side of the road to drive on, or which was is right, or left, or up, or down. The world dissolves into nonsense. No one can, in truth, live with that view of life. The evolutionist ultimately must break out of there "all is random" viewpoint, and take a right turn. Eventually, they are going to have to put their pants on, or cross a street, or buy a pack of bubble gum, and it matters immensely whether the world has order in such moments: they will, in such moments, even against their strongest protests, acknowledge that the world is a "put-together" reality, and that their is such a thing as sense and nonsense. Otherwise, they won't have a problem wearing their pants backwards, or crossing a busy intersection, or paying 35.00 for a pack of gum.

As for me, there's no contradiction between the order without, and the order within. I take it as common sense that life makes sense, but in this sense: God has a purpose, a goal, and a plan to reach that goal. I don't know how every particular fits with every particular, but I know that every particular fits with One and only One Universal: "For My Own Sake, For My Own Sake, I do it... I will not share My Glory with another (says the Lord), Isaiah 48.11." God is arranging events, like the pieces of a puzzle, for the purpose of self-manifestation, that He might be glorified in all the excellence of His character.

God is seated on this throne; the Lord reigns; let the earth rejoice.

"If God does something in your life, would you change it? If you'd change it, you'd make it worse. It wouldn't be as good."

-James Montgomery Boice

Tuesday, May 07, 2013

Reading With Heart, Mind, Soul - And Yes, Body


From Andrew Piper, Out Of Touch:

Amid the seemingly endless debates today about the future of reading, there remains one salient, yet often overlooked fact: Reading isn’t only a matter of our brains; it’s something that we do with our bodies. Reading is an integral part of our lived experience, our sense of being in the world, even if at times this can mean feeling intensely apart from it. How we hold our reading materials, how we look at them, navigate them, take notes on them, share them, play with them, even where we read them—these are the categories that have mattered most to us as readers throughout the long and varied history of reading. They will no doubt continue to do so into the future.
Understanding reading at this most elementary level—at the level of person, habit, and gesture—will be essential as we continue to make choices about the kind of reading we care about and the kind of technologies that will best embody those values. To think about the future of reading means, then, to think about the long history of how touch has shaped reading and, by extension, our sense of ourselves while we read.
***
The significance of the tactility of reading could begin with St. Augustine. In the eighth book of his Confessions, Augustine describes the moment of his conversion to becoming a Christian:

In my misery I kept crying, “How long shall I go on saying, ‘tomorrow, tomorrow?’ ” Why not now? Why not make an end of my ugly sins at this very moment? I was asking myself these questions when all at once I heard the singing voice of a child in a nearby house. Whether it was the voice of a boy or girl I cannot say, but again and again it repeated the refrain, “Take it and read, take it read.”


Monday, May 06, 2013

For Mother's Day

CWK

We could let Mother's Day pass with a card and a call, or we could spend some time reflecting on what it means to cherish and honor our mothers.

Spurgeon would have us do the latter, and so would our dear Lord. Reading the following will leave us all smitten with a measure of grief. How much needless pain have we caused our dear mothers? How little real return have we given to their love and sacrifice? The following will smite us if it should; if it should, then we should thank God. It would be better to be grieved now, when we have the opportunity for change, than come upon a day where the only thing we can do is grieve. There's coming a time when we will have no mother to send a mother's day card. There's coming a time when we will live, either with grief, or joy, for the rest of our days, until Christ wipes away every tear, over the treatment of our mothers. Let's weep more now so we may weep less then.

But, you say, you are bringing me down on Mother's Day. I am bringing you down so that you may repent, and rise up. If you should feel sorrow, I hope you will feel sorrow: the kind of sorrow that leads to transformation. Here's the problem with Mother's day: it is possible to honor your mother just enough on this day to quell all the ways you dishonor her the rest of the year. As for holidays, I'm with the puritans: they are mostly superstitious, and an excuse for materialism and false shows of piety. They do more harm than good for 99% of the population. Mother's Day is no different; it lets us put our conscience to rest if we have mistreated our mothers; we have a holiday one day a year for Mother's so that we don't have to think about them the rest of the year. We have a holiday for someone else 1 day a year so we can have a holiday for our conscience for 364 days a year. God calls us to something different: to a life of repentance: not just to an occasional sorrowful thought, but a whole life of repentance. I'm glad, this Mother's Day, to have one more chance to repent, and try and do better. I'm glad God has granted me a mother on earth for another year. He is a good God; he gave me a good mother; I want to be a better son.

Without further ado:

The anxieties of parents are very great, and some young people do not sufficiently reflect upon them, or they would be more grateful, and would not so often increase them by their thoughtless conduct. I am persuaded that there are many sons and daughters who would not willingly cost their parents sorrow, who, nevertheless, do flood their lives with great grief. It cannot always be innocently that they do this: there must be a measure of wanton wrong about it in many cases where young people clearly foresee the result of their conduct upon their friends. There are some young men, especially, who in the indulgence of what they call their freedom trample on the tender feelings of her that bare them, and frequently cause sleepless nights and crushing troubles to both their parents. This is a crime to be answered for before the bar of God, who has given a special promise to dutiful children, and reserves a special curse for rebellious ones. All parents must have anxieties. There is never a babe dropped into a mother's bosom but it brings care, labor, grief, and anxiety with it. There is a joy in the parental relationship, but there must necessarily be a vast amount of anxious care with it throughout those tender years of infancy in which the frail cockle-shell boat of life seems likely to be swamped by a thousand waves which sweep harmlessly over stronger barques. The newly-lit candle is so readily blown out that mothers nurse and watch with a care which frequently saps the parental life. But our children, perhaps, do not give us most anxiety when they are infants, nor when we have them at school, when we can put them to bed and give them a good-night's kiss and feel that all is safe; the heavy care comes afterwards—afterwards when they have broken through our control, when they are running alone, and on their own account, when they are away from our home, when they are out of the reach of our rebuke, and do not now feel as once they did the power of our authority, and hardly of our love. It is then to many parents that the time of severe trial begins, and, doubtless, many a grey head has been brought with sorrow to the grave by having to cry, "I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against me." Many a father and many a mother die, murdered, not with knife or poison, but by unkind words and cruel deeds of their own children.

Charles Spurgeon, An Anxious Inquiry For A Beloved Son.

Sunday, May 05, 2013

Why We Love Novels



People wonder why the novel is the most popular form of literature; people wonder why it is read more than books of science or books of metaphysics. The reason is very simple; it is merely that the novel is more true than they are. Life may sometimes legitimately appear as a book of science. Life may sometimes appear, and with a much greater legitimacy, as a book of metaphysics. But life is always a novel. Our existence may cease to be a song; it may cease even to be a beautiful lament. Our existence may not be an intelligible justice, or even a recognizable wrong. But our existence is still a story. If we have sufficient intellect, we can finish a philosophical and exact deduction, and be certain that we are finishing it right. With the adequate brain-power we could finish any scientific discovery, and be certain that we were finishing it right. But not with the most gigantic intellect could we finish the simplest or silliest story, and be certain that we were finishing it right. That is because a story has behind it, not merely intellect which is partly mechanical, but will, which is in its essence divine.

Chesterton, Heretics.

The Reason To Drink


The one genuinely dangerous and immoral way of drinking alcohol is to drink it as a medicine. And for this reason. If a man drinks wine in order to obtain pleasure, he is trying to obtain something exceptional, something he does not expect every hour of the day, something which, unless he is a little insane, he will not try to get every hour of the day. But if a man drinks wine in order to obtain health, he is trying to get something natural; something, that is, that he ought not to be without; something that he may find it difficult to reconcile himself to being without. Hence comes the fact which every doctor knows, that it is often perilous to give alcohol to the sick even when they need it. I need hardly say that I do not mean that I think the giving of alcohol to the sick for stimulus is necessarily unjustifiable. But I do mean that giving it to the healthy for fun is the proper use of it, and a great deal more consistent with health.

The sound rule in the matter would appear to be like many other sound rules—a paradox. Drink because you are happy, but never because you are miserable. Never drink when you are wretched without it, or you will be like the grey-faced gin-drinker in the slum; but drink when you would be happy without it, and you will be like the laughing peasant of Italy. Never drink because you need it, for this is rational drinking, and the way to death and hell. But drink because you do not need it, for this is irrational drinking, and the ancient health of the world.

- Chesterton, Heretics. 

Idolatry Always Leads To War On Children

From Chesterton, "Demons and Philosophers," The Everlasting Man.

... without dwelling -much longer in these dark corners, it may be noted as not irrelevant here that certain anti-human antagonisms seem to recur in this tradition of black magic. There may be suspected as running through it everywhere, for instance, a mystical hatred of the idea of childhood. People would understand better the popular fury against the witches, if they remembered that the malice most commonly attributed to them was preventing the birth of children. The Hebrew prophets were perpetually protesting against the Hebrew race relapsing into an idolatry that involved such a war upon children; and it is probable enough that this abominable apostasy from the God of Israel has occasionally appeared in Israel since...

Looking For God in 50 Shades

CWK


"Every man who knocks on the door of a brothel is looking for God.”

-GK Chesterton

***

Every man who visits a prostitute is engaged in a single-minded search for God.

The same could be said of the rise of 50 Shades, and all such like-minded literature that followed in its wake. This book was published in response to an incessant search for God which has been afoot for the last 60 years.

An audience was already there for 50 Shades; time and opportunity was all that was needed. The world wrote 50 Shades long before E.L. James did; they wrote it in the sense of cultivating a longing, in their hearts, for such a book. It's success is no mistake, but rather, a forgone conclusion. The audience was ready to read before the writer ever wrote. This audience was made ready by 60 years of "successful" feminism and humanism. Such success has rendered us a people desperate for authority: a people desperate for some "higher" power to control us, and tell us what to do. The consequence of this success is that women, especially, are turning to various kinds of bondage to sate their desire for leadership.


Welcome to a new kind of success in which freedom means slavery and liberation leads to bondage.

How did we get here?


One blossom on the tree of humanism (man = maker = god) is feminism. Feminism, in full blossom, taught women that men were disposable; it urged them to forsake the vestiges of femininity, and disavow patriarchy (male leadership in the home/culture).

Women were left, still longing for masculine leadership, but now bewildered (and guilty) that such a desire even existed. They had a desire which they didn't know how to fulfill. In comes 50 Shades; so, the women who hate male leadership in theory ended up hiding away in corner booths and reading pornography about a "man in charge." 

Make no mistake: "50 Shades," and the like, is particularly feminist pornography: pornography especially for feminists. What is pornography but the picture-izing of fantasy? The words to unspoken and unfulfilled longings? A quick and easy answer to confused desire?

Feminist pornography fulfills, in a twisted way, the longing for male headship and leadership and strength. If we will not drink water, we will end up drinking a poor substitute. Our thirst will drive us to drink; feminists avowed hatred for water (patriarchy); eventually they were going to get thirsty and drink something not quite so nourishing (50 Shades). If we will not seek right fulfillment of inherent desires, sooner or later, we seek some other fulfillment. This fulfillment will, by virtue of its being a replacement, be perverse and not quite so healthy.

We may marvel, but it's no surprise, one of the leading young feminist voices of our day, Tracie Egan (of Jezebel fame), is famous for seeking out a forced intimacy fantasy (I'll let you translate that). Her desire for male leadership was so strong, her desire to be "controlled" so controlling, she sought it in the most perverse and destructive symbol of women's degradation possible: rape. Likewise, prostitution fantasy has hit mainstream, and even former Olympic athletes -- and many women who are wealthy proud feminists -- "resort" to it.


The irony of this staggers the mind, and breaks the heart. 


How does this relate to God? If we will not be who God calls us to be, we will be some twisted version of who God calls us to be. We cannot escape ourselves, or God, ultimately. The desire to break free from all bonds, human and divine, has led to a voluntary slavery far worse than any perceived slavery in patriarchy or Christianity: a slavery of soul. 


Women especially need -- whether they admit it, or not -- male leadership. If they will not have it willingly, they will have it unwillingly willingly.



Be appalled, O heavens, at this; be shocked, be utterly desolate, declares the Lord,for my  people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me,the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water. Is Israel a slave? Is he a homeborn servant? Why then has he become a prey?
(Jeremiah 2.12-14).

The rise of slavery fantasies effects both men and women at present, though. In all cases, when humans resort to this, they are seeking God. They are at the same time seeking him and pushing him away. 

They are seeking him in that they are seeking some ultimate power to tell them what is right and wrong, to "control" them, and to grant them identity through service. God is the right fulfillment of such desires; He is Good and Wise and Loving, and rightfully the King of the universe. So, when humans seek voluntary intimate slavery, they are indeed seeking a "god" experience: they are seeking what God alone could and does supply; they are looking for God, albeit in all the wrong places. 


Yet, they are also pushing God away by seeking this sort of thing; they are putting a substitute (poor and perverse) in His place. They are saying, at the same time, "My soul thirsts for God," and, "Get away from me, God!" 


Again, the irony staggers the mind, and breaks the heart.


Slavery intimacy is reminds us, in staggering vivid colors, that we are looking for God. Looking, still, for God. Every woman who took up 50 Shades was longing desperately for God; every man that enslaves his heart in bizarre intimacy is grasping, like wild, for the Almighty. We would be left, lost, at the door of a thousand brothels, if we did not embrace a further truth: "God knocks on the brothel door looking for man."*

Zaccheus was known as an especially wicked man. Still, he went looking for Jesus. He soon discovered: all the while, Jesus had been looking for him: Jesus knows him by name, and invites himself over to Zaccheus house (Luke 19.1-10). Jesus searches for the lost: for those who have lost their way while looking for Him. Jesus came, not to seek those who know their way, but those who've lost their way, "The Son of Man came to seek and save that which was lost (Luke 19.10)" We knock on the brothel door, and hear a knock in reply. In amazement, we are bound to confess: a friendly Jesus is on the other side of the door! We must remember: Jesus was a great friend to prostitutes in his day: they came to him weeping, and he did not turn them away (see Luke 7). We may be surprised to find Jesus at a brothel; we may be surprised, but our surprise betrays ignorance of Jesus' character: he always dealt gently with "great sinners," or at least, those who felt themselves to be "great sinners." The last place we'd expect to find Jesus, a brothel, is the first place He shows up.

50 Shades demonstrates that we are looking for God, and we don't even know it. That's reason for sorrow. However, the ministry of Jesus demonstrates that God is looking for us, and even in the places we are trying to lose him. That's reason for joy.

***
*I am indebted to the writers at Door Of Faith for the phrase, "God knocks on the brothel door looking for man."

***
Chesterton on "50 Shades." Just substitute 50 Shades" for "Cannibalism" ...


But with the appeal to lower spirits comes the horrible notion that the gesture must not only be very small but very low; that it must be a monkey trick of an utterly ugly and unworthy sort. Sooner or later a man deliberately sets himself to do the most disgusting thing he can think of. It is felt that the extreme of evil will extort a sort of attention or answer from the evil powers under the surface of the world. This is the meaning of most of the cannibalism in the world.

For most cannibalism is not a primitive or even a bestial habit. It is artificial and even artistic; a sort of art for art's sake. Men do not do it because they do not think it horrible; but, on the contrary, because they do think it horrible. They wish, in the most literal sense, to sup on horrors. That is why it is often found that rude races like the Australian natives are not cannibals, while much more refined and intelligent races, like the New Zealand Maories, occasionally are. They are refined and intelligent enough to indulge sometimes in a self-conscious diabolism. But if we could understand their minds, or even really understand their language, we should probably find that they were not acting as ignorant, that is as innocent cannibals. They are not doing it because they do not think it wrong, but precisely because they do think it wrong. They are acting like a Parisian decadent at a Black Mass. But the Black Mass has to hide underground from the presence of the real Mass. In other words, the demons have really been in hiding since the coming of Christ on earth. The cannibalism of the higher barbarians is in hiding from the civilization of the white man. But before Christendom, and especially outside Europe, this was not always so.

-GK Chesterton, "Demons and Philosophers," The Everlasting Man.

Saturday, May 04, 2013

The Faith of Richard Dawkins and The Doubts of Mother Theresa


CWK

*Excerpted from my longer post, The Fight To Stay Light

(In response to those who point to Mother Theresa's doubt as a sign, and reason, for unbelief...)

David speaks of stumbling in the dark looking for a sliver of the light of God's face, and being concussed with a sense of God's absence (Ps 22.1-2); he laments God's seeming unwillingness even to lift a hand to help, "Why are you so far from saving me (Psalm 22.1)?" 


Sounds kinda like Theresa.


Jesus, God's very Son, once looked up to heaven and saw only a brass ceiling. In response, he lifted his voice in dismay and confusion, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me (Mt. 27.46)?" The words are moving; they are the bewildered scream of a lost child scratching in the dark for some slim answer, "Why?" 


Sounds kinda like Theresa.


Can you imagine what the heathen of the 21st century would do if they knew these things were in the Bible? They'd probably proclaim David and Jesus "skeptics" who sided with them against the Christian Church. Can you imagine what our despondent press corp would do if they knew such things were in the Bible; they'd run headlines proclaiming, "King David was an atheist!"


Theresa's struggle with God was sold as a sign, and even more a reason, for unbelief. When, in fact, such struggles as she had have always been the mark, and a reason for, belief.


Theresa sounds a lot like David, and the Lord Jesus. She sounds, in other words, just like the faithful have always sounded. 


I have a secret suspicion of the suspicious; I believe skeptics believe, not too little, but too much. I have been in some prestigious academic halls over the years, and I have been exposed to the great minds of the believing and unbelieving world. I was surprised to find, again and again, the Christians had questions; unbelievers, alone, seemed to have all the answers: often, these answers did not even particularly correspond to a question; as if, they could answer your question before you even asked; as if, your question was not worth asking. I once heard an unbeliever boast, "We question your answers." That was not my experience; my experience was, "We question your questions with our answers."


It was my Christian professors who encouraged me to ask questions I was afraid to ask. My atheistic professors were skeptical of Christianity, but it was my Christian professors who actually encouraged me to question Christianity in the sense of asking what it really taught, and daring to try and test its teaching for pure truth value. One of my Christian prof's once urged me, "You should do some research into Christianity. If it's not true, then look elsewhere." He trusted Christianity against all attackers; he cared more for truth than for getting me to join his 'side.' Another Professor would encourage unbelievers to read Bertrand Russell's "Why I am Not A Christian." 

I found Christians had all the questions, they were curious, and eager to learn; yet, they felt themselves ignorant; they had all the questions, and hardly any answers. Unbelievers, on the other hand, seemed to have all the answers, and hardly any questions. In short, believers were more like children in that they were curious, and always asking, "Why?" Unbelievers, on the other hand, were more like children in the sense of gullibility, and wide eyed naivete.

Take, for example, Richard Dawkins' recent book, The God Delusion. One is impressed, not by Dawkins' severe reasoning and unbelief, but rather, his naive optimism: not by his questions, but his multitude of answers; not by how little he believes, but rather, his belief in so many things, and in such a large and unquestioning way. He believes wild and wondrous things, things most humble Christians jut don't have the faith for. A few examples:

Like a boy who believes it is possible for a cow to burst the limits of gravity, and high jump the moon, he asserts:
I am thrilled to be alive at time when humanity is pushing against the limits of understanding. Even better, we may eventually discover that there are no limits.
I could not spin a more optimistic and credulous perspective if I tried: "we may eventually discover there are no limits." I wish I had such faith. Then, like the mischievous boy who is convincing himself that he wasn't present when the window was broken, his twists logic in a millions directions and come up with the old excuse, "I wasn't there."
Think of an experience from your childhood. Something you remember clearly, something you can see, feel, maybe even smell, as if you were really there. After all you really were there at the time, weren’t you? How else could you remember it? But here is the bombshell: you weren’t there.
When we were children, we believed our father could do everything: at times, that he was the only one who could do anything. If our father was a watchmaker, we dismissed the watchmaker next door. Dawkins is like the boy who believes his father is the one and only man in the town who ever did anything:
The only watchmaker is the blind forces of physics.
Just on the level of pure reality, this statement is absurd. I live in St. Louis, and we have a hundred watchmakers here. Like a gullible child, Dawkins makes a ridiculous and all-inclusive claim that anyone with google, and the ability to type "watchmaker," can contradict. I know Dawkins is trying for effect here; I know he would not contradict the existence of watchmakers around the world. And yet, he does contradict the existence of watchmakers around the world because he is carried along by his passionate faith and allegiance to one watchmaker. It is just the kind of statement a boasting boy would make.

Next, like a boy whose mind can only believe good is in the world, who just wants to roam and play happily, he has trouble processing what dangers really fill the world:
The mob hysteria over pedophiles has reached epidemic proportions and driven parents to panic. Today's Just Williams, today's Huck Finns, today's Swallows and Amazons are deprived of the freedom to roam that was one of the delights of childhood in earlier times (when the actual, as opposed to the perceived, risk of molestation was probably no less).
Finally, like the boy who finds comfort in being  a bully, he reduces his arguments down to the simple, and ever so easy creed, "Strong can't be wrong. Might makes right."
Does the pregnant woman, or her family, suffer if she does not have an abortion? Very possibly so; and, in any case, given that the embryo lacks a nervous system, shouldn't the mother's well-developed nervous system have the choice?
He might as well say, "Shouldn't the bigger boy have all the rights to the swing set? He has, after all, the better developed nervous system?" 

Read Dawkins carefully, and you will find the secret of the unbeliever; they believe. Read Theresa, or the Bible, carefully, and you will find the secret of the Christians; they doubt.
If I have a major problem with Dawkins, it is this: he believes too much, too easily, on scanty evidence; he is childishly gullible. His book is one of the most startling and positive statements of faith to come out in years. He asserts, with strict certainty and simple optimism, things about the universe that many of us are too skittish to believe. He confesses his faith, not so much his doubts.

Which left me wondering: why is it that the people with the fewest questions seem to be the very ones with the most answers. It would seem having more questions would be the better route to more, or at least better, answers. Then, I read Job, and I saw the man of greatest faith expressing an unbelief that made me blush; I was embarrassed by Job's unbelief until I realized: only Job could question God's goodness because he believed God was good. Had he believed otherwise, Job would be a very short book. I saw: good questions come from good answers; doubt comes from knowing.  And the sun came out.

Unbelievers wonder aloud if God exists; I wonder if unbelievers exist. Unbelievers demand proof of God; I demand proof of unbelief: I have yet to see it. "If there were no God, there would be no atheists." I believe the only man who can really doubt is the believer. I believe the believer alone knows the true pangs that the atheist pretends to know. I'm convinced the Christian is, of all men, the only one who can believe anything, and the only one who can doubt everything. The skepticism of the unbelieving world is not too severe, but too frivolous. I believe the man who believes is the only man who can lament unbelief because he is the only man who feels his unbelief. I trust the doubts of the saints. I believe in God the Father, Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth: and so I have learned to pray, "Help my unbelief." 

The issue I have had with unbelievers is not that they ask too many questions; they ask too few. They don't seem to have curiosity. They are content not to know, and to take it on faith that the creed they inherited from the 21st century is bankable for eternity. They believe too much; they are too gullible.

All this to say, Theresa reminds me more of Job than, say, Richard Dawkins.

***

And the whole argument worked out ultimately to this: that the question is whether a man can be certain of anything at all. I think he can be certain, for if (as I said to my friend, furiously brandishing an empty bottle) it is impossible intellectually to entertain certainty, what is this certainty which it is impossible to entertain? If I have never experienced such a thing as certainty I cannot even say that a thing is not certain. Similarly, if I have never experienced such a thing as green I cannot even say that my nose is not green. It may be as green as possible for all I know, if I have really no experience of greenness. So we shouted at each other and shook the room; because metaphysics is the only thoroughly emotional thing.

Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles.

Starless Night


CWK

I just heard a horse bray in the distance.
I'm awake now, and suddenly aware
of the music of the Southland:
dogs barking to a back up band 
of loudly chirping crickets 
God knows, I love this place.
I can feel a cold and soothing (albeit biting)
breeze across my hands as I type.
These days, even the friendliest wind
in this world seems to have a bite.
There are no stars out tonight.
It's cloudy. I am surrounded by pine trees.

I can’t remember a single cloudy night
from my childhood; back then, 
every sky was clear; every night was starry.
How bright were those nights,
and I was full of life.

I remember lying, with my friends,
on our backs, on hay bales,
and staring for hours at a billion beams
of steady stunning starlight
(each beam overflowing with brightness).
My friends laughed and talked in lightness
all around me with voices, like the stars,
unclouded, and clear, and bright.
I remember the girl I liked,
lying near me, night after long night,
under a full moon of opportunity 
but I recall that I lacked the requisite
courage to say very much to her.
Back then, I cursed my cowardice,
but now, upon reflection, I understand,
there was something noble in my reticence;
in some ways, the boy was the better man.

That seems a long time ago:
a different life, really — I hardly feel
the same person. I'm not.
The years  they have changed me.
It occurred to me just now: I am
a different person — not merely in degree 
different entirely: different in species.
How that boy became this man
is harder to see, by far,
than any distant star.

Looking back, I have not a doubt,
I could have never planned all this out 
not in my worst nightmares;
not in my wildest dreams. I could never
have planned the miraculous maze of my life.
I have, at times, looked back, nearly despairing,
and wished for a way to undo,
not just a thing or two,
but every single everything.

I am looking upward now, looking for a star,
but the sky is blurry with clouds,
and the stars seem to be, from me, hiding.
I am looking still, looking harder;
still, no stars, and still, I am looking upward 
looking, upon a less starry sky,
than those of my childhood,
but with greater resolution 
and still I am looking at the night sky
and hoping for a single beam,
like a watchman, I am stalking the dark,
for one lone star.

I found one. It's a yellow, sickly, sad
star in the Northeastern sky. One star, dim,
but there it is, and I found it.
(If you are reading this, remember,
God works everything together
for good for those who love Him).
That one star is hope,
and pale as it is, I celebrate it.
It is a sign, long awaited, and sorely anticipated:
starlight has not forever faded,
and the Creator has not ceased His devotion
to me, or to planetary motion;
there is, after all, still one star.

I have to trust the rest of the night sky
to God, and cling with all my heart
to my one yellow star.
And I shall.
I have suffered a staggering steady diet
of skies starless and benighted 
but they were my school, and in the end,
from them, I learned to be content.
In that, I surpass the impatient
boy I left behind beneath the shining firmament.
In that, at least, I am a better man than him.
I have learned  when light and hope are dim 
one star is enough.
Now, a single star can make me sing;
I would not change a thing.

I wonder what happened to the girl I liked;
sometimes, I worry for her;
she worries for me, I'm sure.
I wish I could tell her I'm doing alright,
and thank her for our starry nights.
If I could, I would tell her 
about my one yellow star,
and I would tell her the man
is glad to have once been that boy.
If I could, I would take her hand
and tell her, even after all the hard
and starless years, the boy
is glad now to be this man.
I would tell her that I have been
by heaven blessed with sweet content;
If I could, I would tell her it only
takes one star to turn a dark night starry.
I would tell her not to worry:
a single star can make me sing;
I would not change a thing.

            

Friday, May 03, 2013

Let us Live; Let us Love

by CWK
*Excerpted, from the longer post: The Fight To Stay Light, with additional material.

We are not to be, as the popular song goes, "In love with the way (we) feel." Even the preposition "in" is dangerous: as if, love were a state we stumbled into, outside our control, like a spot on the map. If so, then it's no surprise that many are "in" love one moment, and "out of" love the next. 

"You can't choose who you love." 

Such is the wisdom of our age: A wisdom that has launched a thousand ships, and ten thousand adulteries, and a hundred thousand wars. As popularly bandied about, this means, "You have no control over who you love." We should stop to consider what they are saying when they say such a thing. They are saying: you are a slave. You have no choice, no will, and no power in the matter; you have no dignity; you are literally at the mercy of "being in love." Love chooses us, we say, not vice versa. This amounts to a world in which there is no love whatsoever: where marriages never last: where children despise their parents: a world in which war must always be the norm. In other words, this philosophy explains the current state of the world and our culture. Welcome to America, 2013. You can't choose who you love; therefore, no one loves. 

Let me be, if not the first, at least one more voice, of protest: I have it on good authority: you can choose who you love. 

You can choose who you love; you can also choose what you love; you can choose when and how and where and to what degree. I am not given to overstatement: so, read these next words as the truest truth I can write: You can choose who/what you love, and THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT DECISION OF OUR LIVES. Not, where we go to college. Not, who we marry. Not, a retirement plan. Not, where we work. But, what we love: this is the most important decision of our lives. This. Is. The. Most. Important. Decision. Of. Our. Lives.

"You can't choose who you love." 

I could not disagree more strongly. Actually, I agree with that statement. If only interpreted much differently: According to God's word, there is a sense in which, "You can't choose who you love." 

"Love your enemies (Mt. 5.43)."

My translation, "Choose to love the person you have chosen not to love. Choose to love the last person on earth you would, naturally, choose love. Be concerned about this person's welfare. No matter how much evil they do you, as much as it depends on you, try and do them good. You have no prerogative to choose who you love; no matter who the person is, you are to choose to love them. You are called by God to love even your enemies (Mt. 5.43)."

"Love your enemies" -- no statement could be more challenging; nor could there be a more staggering assertion of human dignity and responsibility. It's as if Jesus said, "You can choose anything. Anything is possible for the man who chooses." Jesus seems to be rolling back the curtain of the universe, and letting us in on reality almost too great for us to take it: we can love whoever we please, if only we choose to. And here, we say we can't choose who we love. Husbands mumble that they just can't love the wife they once promised they'd always love. We mumble that we can't choose to love our friends, our families, our husbands/wives. As if, nothing were possible. As if love itself were not possible. And make no mistake, when we say, "You can't choose who you love," we have not only destroyed our dignity. We have destroyed love.  

I wonder if our love would be improved, actually, by thinking of others as enemies: that is, as people we don't naturally love. I wonder if, when Jesus says "love your enemies," he is saying something which applies much more to father/sons, husbands/wives, boss/worker than to national and political enemies. The first century hearer of Jesus' words might have thought of the oppressive Roman centurion who represented brutality and oppression; but, if they followed Jesus teaching, it would have improved their relationship first of all with the irksome neighbor who represented mild annoyance. Much of the time, we secretly do consider the ones closest to us (family, friends, colleagues) in a way enemies. We consider them a burden, a trial to be born, as those who have wronged us, and people to whom is due some measure of (even if very small) vengeance. The teenager who sets out to love his/her enemies may be surprised to find Jesus words apply much more to their relationship with their brother and sister than with their relationship to North Korea. I had a little brother, and older sisters, and I can say from experience: my greatest rivals and hatred and wars were played out in a plot of land about an acre wide with those it was taken for granted I loved and lived peacefully with. 

Keep in mind: loving your enemies does not imply we have sentimental feelings toward them. Nor, does it imply we are pushovers, or "nice." Out of love for their enemies, men have shed blood. Love wishes the best for self/others, and as much as it is in our power, it does that best. "The best" may mean a kind word; it may also mean a word of severe rebuke. Loving another means considering, and then acting, in their true best interest: what is really good for them. As Augustine said, love consults the welfare over the wish of our neighbor.

Such consideration and action arise from a heart that longs for the best for others. Desire. Consider. Act. The order is important.

Desire: Best Good
Consider: Best Good
Act: Best Good

Desire, the heart, the affections: this must be FIRST.

Then, consideration. We have to think about what would be best for another, give it some thought, before we can do it. Our problem is often: we don't even take the time to think about others, much less think about what is best for them.

Then, act. Without action, nothing counts for love. 

This does not mean desire is irrelevant; true loving desire always leads to thoughts, then deeds, of love. The enemy of right and loving action is not desire, but wrong desire (hate). When we lack love, we tend to talk a big game, and do nothing. Thus, the Bible frequently warns of loving by way of wordiness 

1 Jn. 3.18: Love not in words, but in deeds, and in truth.
  Love is not a state out there; love is to be a state in here: in our hearts. It is the state we carry with us whatever state we find ourselves in. We "walk in love (Eph 5.2)" –  where our feet step, there we love.

I can say, with Poe, "When I was young, and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy." 

There is a giving of oneself over, a resignation, a spiritual sluggishness, that seems so inviting to the would-be-melancholic.Such resignation bears the face of a slightly smug, but cool and mature, carelessness. It invites us to an exalted perspective wherein, we are above life: nothing matters. "Whatever." "It is what it is." When such resignation calls, we might just sit back, and let our feelings wash over us, like a fatal injection, spreading death: like a tidal wave, tossing us cruelly, and carrying us to unknown destinations. Ah, my friend, I will tell you the destination: death. To sit back and let the world and our feelings wash over, to sit back motionless, that is death, and the road to death. The Greek concept of life meant "motion." Scan the world, and you will notice: living things move; living things are active. Dead things are still; dead things are inactive. Living men swim against the waves; dead men are carried by the waves. Let us move; let us strive; let us fight; let us run, and swim, and seek, and not yield. Let us live; let us love.

***


The danger of believing that you ‘fall in love’ is that it also means you can ‘fall out of love’ just as unexpectedly… We need to throw out the misconception that love is some strange ‘force’ that tosses us around against our will like leaves in the wind [infatuation is sadly mistaken for true love these days. Thus if a man 'falls in love' with a married woman, instead of commanding his feelings away from her, he says 'How can you resist love; it must triumph!' Much evil is done in the name of such 'love'. Also, too many marriages are based on little more than this kind of 'love', and so get into trouble soon after the wedding day. True love ought to really grow from that day: not diminish! It is at root the friendship and intimacy of two souls - and is more about acts than feelings. The feelings will deepen as a result of the acts. G.M.] We cannot justify doing what we know is wrong by saying that love grabbed hold of us and ‘made’ us behave irresponsibly. That’s not love. Instead, it’s what the Bible calls in Thessalonians 4:5 ‘passionate lust.’ We express true love in obedience to God and service to others - not reckless or selfish behavior - and we choose these behaviors.

Josh Harris, I Kissed Dating Goodbye

Thursday, May 02, 2013

The Fight To Stay Light, or Mother Theresa Is Alright

CWK


Now although God cast common blessings promiscuously upon good and bad (people); yet he holds his best favors at a distance, as parents do cherries or apples from their children, to whet their appetites the more after them. And indeed the best perfection of a Christian (during this earthly life), is, in desire and expectation; and it is enough to (God)... (for he knows) God’s acceptance... The soul of man is like a cipher, which is valued by that which is set before it. If it weary itself in the desire of earthly things, like the silk-worm, it finisheth its work with its own destruction. But if on things above, when this earthly tabernacle is turned to ashes, there shall result a glorious phoenix for immortality (Richard Sibbes, A Breathing After God).


A woman named Theresa, better known to us Mother Theresa, lived a publicly joyful and happy Christian life. She dogged death and disease and despair like a vengeful assassin, with hands calloused from hard fighting, with always a smile on her face. In the midst of so much brokenness, she seemed whole. In the midst of so much hopelessness, she seemed serene. She was celebrated, during her life, as an exemplar of closeness to God: she came to represent the ideal person: a life of happy sacrifice in service to God. She came to represent a saint in the sense of being far above the normal human capacity of love and holiness. All had sinned, but not her. The words "Mother Theresa" became shorthand for "good person."


My favorite Theresa story:


She was invited to speak at the 1994 prayer breakfast by then President Bill Clinton. No doubt, many would have considered this an honor, and walked on egg shells before the great man, and his assembled dignitaries. Surely, Theresa would use her speaking opportunity to strike a peaceful pose with the powers that be. Surely, she would avoid any topic that would annoy Clinton. Nope. 


She spoke up, and out, against abortion.


With words that even now bring tears to my eyes, she spoke about the blessing unborn Jesus, while still in his mother's womb, brought to his cousin: 

While still in the womb of Mary, Jesus brought peace to John the Baptist, who leapt for joy in the womb of Elizabeth... 
She was expected to speak peacefully, quietly. Instead, she declared war on the war against children:


Our children depend on us for everything: their health, their nutrition, their security, their coming to know and love God. For all of this, they look to us with trust, hope and expectation. But often father and mother are so busy that they have no time for their children, or perhaps they are not even married, or have given up on their marriage. So the children go to the streets, and get involved in drugs, or other things. We are talking of love of the child, which is where love and peace must begin. But I feel that the greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, because it is a war against the child - a direct killing of the innocent child - murder by the mother herself. And if we accept that a mother can kill her own child, how can we tell other people not to kill one another? ...Any country that accepts abortion is not teaching the people to love, but to use any violence to get what they want. That is why the greatest destroyer of love and peace is abortion. And for this I appeal in India and I appeal everywhere: "Let us bring the child back." The child is God's gift to the family. Each child is created in the special image and likeness of God for greater things - to love and to be loved.
After Theresa's speech, the Ballroom erupted in applause, with a standing ovation. Bill and Hillary Clinton, along with the Gore's, did not stand, or applaud. 

All this to say, Theresa is one of my favorite people. She represented moral courage in the face of immoral power. She represented spiritual riches in the face of spiritual poverty. She represented joyful boldness in the face of a cold and disapproving world. That day at the National Prayer Breakfast, she said, 

I talk so much of giving with a smile...
She gave, and fought, with a smile. And so she seemed, to all the world, a picture of steely happy courage. So she seemed.

After her death, in light of her journals, a different picture emerged. We all discovered, with a mix of disappointment and surprise, that Theresa's inner world was starkly different from her outer world; we learned of her doubts, her wrestling with God, and her anxiety over the apparent distance of God; we learned of her grief. We learned that she trudged through 50 famished years burdened by a sense of God's silence. We saw, for the first time, a frown on the face of the woman we'd only seen smile.


Unbelievers rejoiced at the unbelief of a saint; religious folk scratched their head, and questioned if Theresa was, in fact, who they thought she was: they felt duped. The press cast her journals in an entirely negative light: an anti-confession of faith. 


(That's what the press does: they bring their hopeless worldview to every event so they can snuff out every corner of light, leave us in frenzied fear, and drive us to buy more materialistic matches. News programs are, themselves, commercials: they are commercials for the commercials that come every few minutes, "Here's an important message from our sponsors.") 


We have a better guide than the godless glee of the world, the ill-informed confusion of the religious, or the doom and gloom false prophets in the press. We have God's word. 


Here are 6 considerations from God's word that will stop the mouths of unbelievers, open the mouths of the faithful, and reorient us toward God and happy hope.


1) We may pity Theresa, or feel her life was a "sad" ordeal, but that's not the counsel of the Scriptures. "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness (Mt 5.6)." Theresa had a deep abiding hunger that nothing in this world could sate. She was starved to death for God.


She was, thus, well prepared for another country wherein God is All in All to his people. The Psalmists speak of panting after God, like a dehydrated deer (Psalm 42.1). David speaks of stumbling in the dark looking for a sliver of the light of God's face, and being concussed with a sense of God's absence (Ps 22.1-2); he laments God's seeming unwillingness even to lift a hand to help, "Why are you so far from saving me (Psalm 22.1)?" 


Sounds kinda like Theresa.


Jesus, God's very Son, once looked up to heaven and saw only a brass ceiling. In response, he lifted his voice in dismay and confusion, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me (Mt. 27.46)?" The words are moving; they are the bewildered scream of a lost child scratching in the dark for some slim answer, "Why?" 


Sounds kinda like Theresa.


Can you imagine what the heathen of the 21st century would do if they knew these things were in the Bible? They'd probably proclaim David and Jesus "skeptics" who sided with them against the Christian Church. Can you imagine what our despondent press corp would do if they knew such things were in the Bible; they'd run headlines proclaiming, "King David was an atheist!"


Theresa's struggle with God was sold as a sign, and even more a reason, for unbelief. When, in fact, such struggles as she had have always been the mark, and a reason for, belief.


Theresa sounds a lot like David, and the Lord Jesus. She sounds, in other words, just like the faithful have always sounded. 


I have a secret suspicion of the suspicious; I believe skeptics believe, not too little, but too much. I have been in some prestigious academic halls over the years, and I have been exposed to the great minds of the believing and unbelieving world. I was surprised to find, again and again, the Christians had questions; unbelievers, alone, seemed to have all the answers: often, these answers did not even particularly correspond to a question; as if, they could answer your question before you even asked; as if, your question was not worth asking. I once heard an unbeliever boast, "We question your answers." That was not my experience; my experience was, "We question your questions with our answers."


It was my Christian professors who encouraged me to ask questions I was afraid to ask. My atheistic professors were skeptical of Christianity, but it was my Christian professors who actually encouraged me to question Christianity in the sense of asking what it really taught, and daring to try and test its teaching for pure truth value. One of my Christian prof's once urged me, "You should do some research into Christianity. If it's not true, then look elsewhere." He trusted Christianity against all attackers; he cared more for truth than for getting me to join his 'side.' Another Professor would encourage unbelievers to read Bertrand Russell's "Why I am Not A Christian." 

I found Christians had all the questions, they were curious, and eager to learn; yet, they felt themselves ignorant; they had all the questions, and hardly any answers. Unbelievers, on the other hand, seemed to have all the answers, and hardly any questions. In short, believers were more like children in that they were curious, and always asking, "Why?" Unbelievers, on the other hand, were more like children in the sense of gullibility, and wide eyed naivete.

Take, for example, Richard Dawkins' recent book, The God Delusion. One is impressed, not by Dawkins' severe reasoning and unbelief, but rather, his naive optimism: not by his questions, but his multitude of answers; not by how little he believes, but rather, his belief in so many things, and in such a large and unquestioning way. He believes wild and wondrous things, things most humble Christians jut don't have the faith for. A few examples:

Like a boy who believes it is possible for a cow to burst the limits of gravity, and high jump the moon, he asserts:
I am thrilled to be alive at time when humanity is pushing against the limits of understanding. Even better, we may eventually discover that there are no limits.
I could not spin a more optimistic and credulous perspective if I tried: "we may eventually discover there are no limits." I wish I had such faith. Then, like the mischievous boy who is convincing himself that he wasn't present when the window was broken, his twists logic in a millions directions and come up with the old excuse, "I wasn't there."
Think of an experience from your childhood. Something you remember clearly, something you can see, feel, maybe even smell, as if you were really there. After all you really were there at the time, weren’t you? How else could you remember it? But here is the bombshell: you weren’t there.
When we were children, we believed our father could do everything: at times, that he was the only one who could do anything. If our father was a watchmaker, we dismissed the watchmaker next door. Dawkins is like the boy who believes his father is the one and only man in the town who ever did anything:
The only watchmaker is the blind forces of physics.
Just on the level of pure reality, this statement is absurd. I live in St. Louis, and we have a hundred watchmakers here. Like a gullible child, Dawkins makes a ridiculous and all-inclusive claim that anyone with google, and the ability to type "watchmaker," can contradict. I know Dawkins is trying for effect here; I know he would not contradict the existence of watchmakers around the world. And yet, he does contradict the existence of watchmakers around the world because he is carried along by his passionate faith and allegiance to one watchmaker. It is just the kind of statement a boasting boy would make.

Next, like a boy whose mind can only believe good is in the world, who just wants to roam and play happily, he has trouble processing what dangers really fill the world:
The mob hysteria over pedophiles has reached epidemic proportions and driven parents to panic. Today's Just Williams, today's Huck Finns, today's Swallows and Amazons are deprived of the freedom to roam that was one of the delights of childhood in earlier times (when the actual, as opposed to the perceived, risk of molestation was probably no less).
Finally, like the boy who finds comfort in being  a bully, he reduces his arguments down to the simple, and ever so easy creed, "Strong can't be wrong. Might makes right."
Does the pregnant woman, or her family, suffer if she does not have an abortion? Very possibly so; and, in any case, given that the embryo lacks a nervous system, shouldn't the mother's well-developed nervous system have the choice?
He might as well say, "Shouldn't the bigger boy have all the rights to the swing set? He has, after all, the better developed nervous system?" 

Read Dawkins carefully, and you will find the secret of the unbeliever; they believe. Read Theresa, or the Bible, carefully, and you will find the secret of the Christians; they doubt.
If I have a major problem with Dawkins, it is this: he believes too much, too easily, on scanty evidence. His book is one of the most startling and positive statements of faith to come out in years. He asserts, with strict certainty and simple optimism, things about the universe that many of us are too skittish to believe. He confesses his faith, not so much his doubts.

Which left me wondering: why is it that the people with the fewest questions seem to be the very ones with the most answers. It would seem having more questions would be the better route to more, or at least better, answers. Then, I read Job, and I saw the man of greatest faith expressing an unbelief that made me blush; I was embarrassed by Job's unbelief until realized: only Job could question God's goodness because he believed God was good. Had he believed otherwise, Job would be a very short book. I saw: good questions come from good answers; doubt comes from knowing.  And the sun came out.

Unbelievers wonder aloud if God exists; I wonder if unbelievers exist. Unbelievers demand proof of God; I demand proof of unbelief: I have yet to see it. I believe the only man who can really doubt is the believer. I believe the believer alone knows the true pangs that the atheist pretends to know. I'm convinced the Christian is, of all men, the only one who can believe anything, and the only one who can doubt everything. The skepticism of the unbelieving world is not too severe, but too frivolous. I believe the man who believes is the only man who can lament unbelief because he is the only man who feels his unbelief. I trust the doubts of the saints. I believe in God the Father, Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth: and so I have learned to pray, "Help my unbelief." 

The issue I have had with unbelievers is not that they ask too many questions; they ask too few. They don't seem to have curiosity. They are content not to know, and to take it on faith that the creed they inherited from the 21st century is bankfable for eternity. They believe too much; they are too gullible.

All this to say, Theresa reminds me more of Job than, say, Richard Dawkins.

2) It may be that Theresa's felt sense of distance was the fruit of true closeness. Those who have greatest intimacy are most sensitive to the slightest distance. Also, when you love someone, you want to be closer, and closer, and closer to them. Then, the closer you are, the farther from them you feel


This explains why the Psalmists, men who surely knew God, could gasp for God like a suffocating man gasps for air, "My soul thirsts for the living God (Ps 42.2)."


There is a closeness, an intimacy, sweet and sincere, that rejoices in nearness while, at the very same moment, it mourns distance. The nearness is precious, but it is a reminder: we are still not as close as we would like to be: somewhat sated, but still, not satisfied. This is how two persons feel who are moving toward each other. This is the hallmark of true intimacy: we still feel distant. There is also a distance, cold and calculated, that recoils in nearness, and at the very same moment, mourns closeness. This is the hallmark of true distance: we still feel close.


(The above paragraph will require several readings, aloud, and some meditation. I never said I was writing for the faint of heart, or such readers as don't care to weigh and consider words. You can find light reading elsewhere).


The Christian life is a life of fasting: a life of feeling hungry, and thirsty, and weary, for more of God. The more hunger we have, the more desperate we feel, the more we are preparing our hearts to receive more of God. 



Our view of spiritual maturity is over-influenced by the materialistic feel-good culture around us; maybe Jesus wasn't kidding when he said words that would surely fall like a bad joke on our age, "Blessed are those who mourn (Mt. 5.4)."

I once visited my doctor, and complained of some health problems I was having related to my having had a rough battle with Pneumonia. He set out to fill my pockets with pills. As he did, he said something he took for granted, "We have to get you feeling good. You have to feel good don't you?"


"No," I said, "I don't." 


I didn't, but I should have, added, "The one and only thing I have to do is seek God."



"The afflicted shall eat and be satisfied (Psalm 22.26)."


Theresa spoke of witnessing physical hunger, near starvation, and she said something strange: 

And I saw the children, their eyes shining with hunger.
Maybe Theresa's eyes shined, not from being so full, but from being so hungry. I have seen eyes dull with gluttony: gluttony of a soul that has been gorged on junk food. My God, have mercy on me. I'd rather starve to death than die daily of gluttony.

3) Theresa struggled, profoundly. There is a realness to her life. It wasn't all sunshine. It wasn't a string of uninterrupted victories. She struggled, but she struggled on: she persevered.


Her soul trouble makes her work more, not less, wondrous. We admire a man who can lift a car above his head; we admire him more if he only has one arm.


She kept at her work; she kept her eyes on the poor. She did what she could even when she felt that she couldn't. Her deeds, and her deeds alone, make the monument of her life. She is in many ways similar to Job: Job wrestled with God; he asked God hard questions, and instead of getting good answers, he got more of God.


The heathen who raged, and rejoiced, at the seeming fall of a saint should have taken a closer look. They might have taken a moment to consider what true faithfulness is: it is not feeling good, but doing good. They tried to arrange the fall of a saint on the very grounds that most prove sainthood. Those they exalt will be humbled; those they seek to humble, will be exalted.



A further lesson can be learned from the struggles of Theresa. None of us, no matter our place of service, or maturity, are above agonizing groanings in this life. In fact, groaning is part of the Christian life (Romans 8.22); this groaning is good, not bad, even if we don't feel good while it is happening. Paul compares this groaning to labor pains: labor pains signal new life around the corner. The Christian's labor pains signal new life within them, and much more: the dawn of a new world of life.

5) It may be we exalted Theresa in a way that was, all along, unrealistic and unwise.


All Christians are called to be saints (translation: holy ones). It is a contradiction to place any particular Christian on an exalted spiritual plain above the rest; promoting men/women to a status way above the normal Christian is contrary to the dignity of every Christian:

To the church of God that is in Corinth, to those sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints together with all those who in every place call upon the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, both their Lord and ours: (1 Cor 1:29).
In addition, promoting men/women in this way is contrary to the reality that, until the New Heavens, we all carry around, "a body of sin and death (Rom 7.24)." We all stumble in many ways (James 3:2). I have no idea if any of Theresa's soul trouble had to do with sin, but I do know that she, like me, like all of us, even the most mature Christians, had her own stumblings. As Spurgeon often reminded his congregation, "The best of men are but men, at best." If we don't realize this we are setting ourselves up for deep disappointments. No man/woman is going to be the perfect example of holiness we need. No man/woman is going to always come through, and never let us down. If we expect they will, we are putting them, and us, in a position to suffer disillusionment. The Christian looks to God as the one and only source of perfection; the Christian looks to Jesus as our model. God, alone, will never let us down; Jesus, alone, provides the ultimate template for godliness.

If the unbelieving world wants to ridicule Theresa, or us, and say, "There, I told you: one of your best stumbled and struggled." We should respond, "That's what we have been saying all along: that we are ALL broken sinners. This proves the reality of Christianity; we need a Savior!"


6) We need to decide what we feel; I fear there was, if not a fault, perhaps a misconception, that left Theresa with deeper burdens than were necessary. This misconception: feelings define reality and our relationship with God.


What ought define reality? Not feelings, but God's word, and facts.


What ought to define our conduct? Again, not feelings, but God's word.


"Rejoice in the Lord, always (Phil 4.4)."


This is a positive command just as much as, "Love your neighbor," is a positive command. 


We are not, Paul is urging strongly, to sit back in a joyless stupor and count our miseries. We are not to let our feelings decide whether we will sing, or pray, or delight in God. It takes effort to rejoice in anything; it takes effort to turn our hearts toward joy. This we must do because our feelings are not the ultimate evidence of true godliness. Our lives are the ultimate evidence of true godliness, "You will know them by their fruit (Mt 7.16)." One fruit of the godly life, one fruit of the Spirit of God, is JOY (Gal 5.22).


In our day, the vice of sadness has become a virtue. We revel in our sadness; we try to make ourselves more sad. We pretend to be even sadder than we are. We play sad songs on full blast, on repeat, and weep away the hours for reasons we know not why. This love of sadness is madness. This love of sadness is a sin, a fruit of lazy selfish pride. Here's my translation, with a modern day update, on a famous passage from Chesterton's Orthodoxy:

Sadness is not a virtue. It would be a heresy, but a much more sensible heresy, to say that sadness is a vice. It is really a natural trend or lapse into taking one's self gravely, because it is the easiest thing to do. It is much easier to write a serious and sad blog post... than a good joke... For solemnity flows out of men naturally; but laughter is a leap. It is easy to be heavy: hard to be light. Satan fell by the force of gravity.
We are not to be, as the popular song goes, "In love with the way (we) feel." Some things we feel, we ought hate. "In Love." Even the preposition "in" is dangerous: as if, love were a state we stumbled into, outside our control, like a state on the map. If so, then it's no surprise that many are "in" love one moment, and "out of" it the next. 

"You can't choose who you love." 


Such is the wisdom of our age: A wisdom that has launched a thousand ships, and ten thousand adulteries, and a hundred thousand wars. As popularly bandied about, this means, "You have no control over who you love." We should stop to consider what they are saying when they say such a thing. They are saying: you are a slave. You have no choice, no will, and no power in the matter; you have no dignity; you are literally at the mercy of "being in love." 


You can choose who you love; you can choose what you love. I am not given to overstatement: so, read these next words as the truest truth I can write: You can choose who/what you love, and THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT DECISION OF OUR LIVES. Not, where we go to college. Not, who we marry. Not, a retirement plan. Not, where we work. But, what we love: this is the most important decision of our lives. This Is The. Most Important. Decision. Of Our Lives.


Love is not a state on the map into which we stumble; it is a state of heart in which we walk.


"You can't choose who you love." 


I could not disagree more. On second thought, in a way, I agree with that statement -- if only interpreted much differently: according to God's word, there is a sense in which, "You can't choose who you love." 


"Love your enemies (Mt. 5.43)."


My translation, "You have no prerogative to choose who you love; no matter who the person is, you are to choose to love them. You are called by God to love even your enemies (Mt. 5.43)."


Keep in mind: loving your enemies does not imply we have sentimental feelings toward them. Nor, does it imply we are pushovers, or "nice." Out of love for their enemies, men have gone to war, and shed blood. Love wishes the best for self/others, and as much as it is in our power, it does that best. The best may mean a kind word; it may also mean a word of severe rebuke. Loving another means considering, and then acting, in their true best interest: what is really good for them. Such consideration and action arise from a heart that longs for the best for others.


The point is: Love is not a state out there; love is to be a state in here: in our hearts. It is the state we carry with us whatever state we find ourselves in. We "walk in love (Eph 5.2)" – where our feet step, there we love.


All that we have said about love applies to joy. "We can't choose when we rejoice." Yes, we are to rejoice ALWAYS (Phil 4.4).


I can say, with Poe, "When I was young, and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy." 


There is a giving of oneself over, a resignation, a spiritual sluggishness, that seems so inviting to the would-be-melancholic.Such resignation bears the face of a slightly smug, but cool and mature, carelessness. It invites us to an exalted perspective wherein, we are above life: nothing matters. "Whatever. It is what it is." Chesterton warned against a proud and cool stony heart:

A bird is active, because a bird is soft. A stone is helpless, because a stone is hard. The stone must by its own nature go downwards, because hardness is weakness. The bird can of its nature go upwards, because fragility is force. In perfect force there is a kind of frivolity, an airiness that can maintain itself in the air... The tattered cloak of the beggar will bear him up like the rayed plumes of the angels. But the kings in their heavy gold and the proud in their robes of purple will all of their nature sink downwards, for pride cannot rise to levity or levitation. Pride is the downward drag of all things into an easy solemnity. One "settles down" into a sort of selfish seriousness; but one has to rise to a (happy) self-forgetfulness.
We have to fight to stay light. It's easy to be heavy and sad and loveless. We have to say, "Ever," and not, "Whatever." When prideful resignation calls, we might just sit back, and let our feelings wash over us, like a fatal injection, spreading death: like a tidal wave, tossing us cruelly, and carrying us to unknown destinations. Ah, my friend, I will tell you the destination: death. To sit back and let the world and our feelings consume us, to sit back motionless, that is death, and the road to death. The Greek word for life meant "motion." Scan the world, and you will notice: living things move; living things are active. Dead things are still; dead things are inactive. Living things, by virtue of a virtuous lightness, float; dead things sink. Living beings do not take it easy; nor, the easy way; from abundance of energy, they take the hard way. On the other hand, you can't take it more easy than being dead. Living men swim against the waves for joy at being in the ocean; dead men are carried by the waves. Let us move; let us strive; let us fight; let us run, and swim, and seek, and not yield. Let us live; let us love.

Unto our apathetic dispositions, the scriptures do not offer slick cliches, "One day you'll understand. It's sure to get better one day." They say, "You must, by grace, be better." Rejoice! Rejoice, whether (in your eyes) it get's better, or not. Rejoice, always.


I won't listen to soppy sad music anymore. I don't care to watch sad movies.  There is enough true tragedy in the world: too much for me to be weeping over a fictional character, or the depressive musings of a lovelorn womanizing pop troubador. 

"When I was older, and dipped in grace, I chose joy as my portion: joy did I embrace."


Another caution: we can fall prey to our feelings, and begin to consider our "sweetest" or "bitterest" emotional frames as evidence of intimacy and/or distance from God. We can try to gage our spirituality by how "good" we feel, or how "close" to God we feel. This is folly. "Feeling" close to someone has nothing to do with "being" close to someone. Feeling you are in the right place has nothing to do with being in the right place. Or else, those who get lost when driving would immediately know their error. In fact, the most lost people "feel" the least lost. The relationships that are really in trouble are the ones wherein an easy and insincere security takes root.

We should not, therefore, gage our spirituality by how we feel. Nor should we despair when our feelings are despairing.

We should, in such moments, take counsel of God's word and facts (these are one and the same), and not our feelings, or emotional frames. The way to fight false feeling is with fact. This is why the Psalmist reasons with himself, "Why are you so downcast, O, my soul (Ps. 43.5)." When overwhelmed by feelings, we would do well to stop and THINK.

Theresa's "feelings" concerning the distance of God were not in accord with God's word or facts. In God, "We live and move and have our being; he is not far from any one of us (Acts 17.27)."

Sometimes, even much of the time, our first feelings are simply wrong. We may feel God to be distant; we are mistaken. Jesus promised to never ever leave us, no matter where we go, and no matter how much time elapses. However we feel, that's a fact.


"And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age (Mt. 28.20)."


***


From Leadership Journal, this is the wise advice Theresa's "Pastor" gave her on dealing with spiritual dryness:

She never overcame her pain over God's silence. In a strange way, it became a part of her. In the midst of this struggle, a wise spiritual counselor told her three things she needed to hear...
... "feeling" the presence of Jesus was not the only or even the primary evidence of his presence. (Jesus himself said that by their fruit—not their feelings—you shall know his true followers.) In fact, the very craving for God was a "sure sign" that God was present—though in a hidden way—in her life.
... the pain she was going through could be redemptive. That Jesus himself had to experience the agony of the Absence of God: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" His suffering redeemed us. Like him, Mother Teresa could suffer redemptively by clinging to God in the midst of darkness.

And, from the same article:

Notre Dame sociologist Christian Smith says the fastest-growing religion in America today is neither Christianity, Islam, nor some eastern religion. It is what he calls Moralistic Therapeutic Deism (MTD). In MTD, the most important "truth" about God is that he wants us all to be nice, to feel happy, and to be delivered from pain (that's the therapeutic part). Outside of being available when I need him, God will not interfere much with my life (there's the deism).
We are drawn to MTD because we want our life to be nice, happy, and uninterrupted. Smith says that MTD is in our culture—including our churches—like fluoride is in our water.
John of the Cross spoke about something like this condition. He called it "spiritual gluttony," a condition where God is merely a means to fulfill my desire to experience warm feelings and spiritual energy. John saw this as a temptation to all Christians, and taught that God will actually withdraw good feelings from us to help us grow. The "dark night of the soul"—which has come to be used by many people for any experience of suffering—actually has a very focused meaning for John. It is the season in which God withdraws comfort and emotional ease for a purpose which is good, but which we may not understand. 
Mother Teresa's namesake, Saint Therese of Lisieux, was another follower of Jesus who knew about this. According to one biographer, she "lived for most of her adult life in utter darkness and dryness and abandonment by her divine Love." Her teaching of "the little way" has helped millions of Christians make sense of the dryness. Her "little way" is this: love. This is more important than "spiritual vitality."
Love.
No matter what darkness you find yourself in, choose as your guidepost a love for whoever God has cross your path.
That elder. That staff person. That attendee. That neighbor. Do not ask for more fascinating and important people to be part of your church. Just start by loving whomever is there.
You cannot see God, Theresa reasoned. But you can see your neighbor: that difficult, tedious, cranky person who grates on the only nerve you have left.
Love that one.
***
The true savage is a slave, and is always talking about what he must do; the true civilized man is a free man, and is always talking about what he may do.

Chesterton, All Things Considered.