This world is far from ordinary. It is a strange place, sculpted and personalized by a great God with boundless creativity who is quite literally the definition of love (I John 4:8). This, of course makes the world complicated. For love is the great risk. Love asks for reciprocation. Love asks for a willing affection. And this demands giving freedom away, trusting that the other will voluntary love. This class has helped me to appreciate the supreme risk of the way this world was created.
The sad part of the risk is that we have failed to love in return. We have become caught up in the enthusiasm of gratifying our own desires. We go for the obvious happiness, but we always are left cold, because we are kicking against the order that the world has been set in, the order of whole and complete love. This divergence causes us real pain. Although we understand that this is not the way it’s supposed to be, our longing is constantly beaten down by our preoccupation with ourselves.
But this is where things become really strange. Not only is God adamant about giving us freedom to do whatever we like, but he is determined to have us, though all Hell stand against him. You see, God is majestic, but he will not limit himself by dignity. He will do anything, he will disturb the world he has created, he will speak to shepherds in the Sinai, he will limit himself to a tabernacle. Finally he dwelled among us, to be stripped naked and hammered to a stout piece of wood for the derision of the world. This is a God who is not content with the way things are.
This strange world is the one that this class taught me about. Plantinga’s book provided a framework while C. S. Lewis filled it in with fine style. The incredible beauty of God’s plan for his world was brought wonderfully to light by this class.
Plantinga refers to creation as being an outpouring of imaginative love. Creation is an expression of God’s character. We are God’s art: although he didn’t need us, he loves us as he loves himself, for we are an expression of himself. Art, because it is an expression, is also a way to convey a message. Creation, as art, is God’s first tendril of communication, speaking to us of his glory. This places a great responsibility on us as part of God’s creation to convey God’s message, to bear the weight of his glory. C.S. Lewis understood that this weight of glory that each person carries should influence our actions. “There are no ordinary people, Lewis writes, “It is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit-immortal horrors or everlasting splendours” (The Weight of Glory 9). As God’s artistic expressions we must understand both the gravity of conveying God’s message and the seriousness, mixed with merriment, with which we must engage the world, and especially the people around us as God’s creation.
The tragic beauty of God’s creation is that he gave us a choice. In his desire for reciprocated voluntary love he gave us a choice. Yet we fail him because we limit ourselves to immediate happiness. “We are half-hearted creatures,” says Lewis, “fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us” (The Weight of Glory 1). Because we are people limited in our perception, we attempt to satiate ourselves with temporal pleasures that never really satisfy the great longing for perfect love that we have inherited from God. This misguided desire of ours cleaves us from God. Petty selfish desires make us embarrassed, and as Wormwood points out, fill us with a cloud of guilt that makes us reluctant to seek communion with our creator (The Screwtape Letters Letter XII).
So we have insulted our creator terribly. He has lavished his artistic love on us. He has created with his glory and we toss it aside every day in our disregard for his creation, in our exploitation of those who bear his image. The whole affair is really rather embarrassing, damnably embarrassing, and yet God would not have us despair in our own meagre worlds that we have created. In our embarrassment we try to escape from God’s invitation of love, fleeing the light. But God will follow us to the far side of the sea. “He stoops to conquer,” writes Lewis, “He will have us even though we have shown that we prefer everything else to him” (The Problem of Pain 96). The Lord is willing to humble himself because he is a God of sacrifice. The God who sacrificed complete control over his creation that they might have the freedom to love him will also sacrifice anything to save his people from their self-affliction. We may see his sacrifice anywhere in the story of salvation. He used the weak vessels of prophets and shepherds, he allowed puny sacrifices of doves to atone for sins, and he finally dwelled among us, enduring the cross and scorning the shame (Hebrews 12:2).
The Lord’s supreme example of sacrifice must be our guiding light as redeemed people. We must obey Christ’s message that perfect joy, gained through perfect communion, is to be had at any cost. For us these costs are superficial. The sacrifices that God calls us are simply to deny our fallen selves. Plantinga points out that God calls us to a perfect joy by giving us the Ten Commandments. The Law limits not our true freedom, but our tendency towards self-centeredness. The Law, far from restricting us, sets limits that shear off our sinful selves. Through this painful cleaving we are freed from that which restricts us from joyful communion with God.
Lewis, in A Right to Happiness, points out that rights are only freedoms that are given us. When thinking of freedom we must think as God does. Freedom is not the ability to do whatever we want, for when we are given that option, we inevitably do things we regret. God knows this and asks us to voluntarily give up our “freedom” in order to embrace the higher freedom that he has prepared for us.
The beauty of God’s call on all of our lives is that He despises the mold. He is an artist and has crafted each of his creatures unique. He would not squish us into morality, but encourage us towards a high freedom. He would not squish us into becoming a Christian, but unleashes to us the gifts and passions he has given us for their intended purpose. He not only allows us to pursue our passions, but asks us to: purposefully, for him. In that way we are all beautifully reliant on eachother. We each have our unique place in the kingdom which gives us all a unique value. C.S Lewis points out that this is comforting because we need not worry about whether God has placed us in a practical enough field (Learning in War Time 5). Instead we can trust in him and concentrate on following His will within our sphere of influence. Now I should caution that even within our vocation we must always be attentive to God’s call. If the Bible is anything to go by, God frequently calls us to pull up our stakes and follow him elsewhere.
Of course following God’s will is not often easy. We may be certain we will never regret our obedience, but we must never expect to enjoy the process. C.S. Lewis spoke of this in Our English Syllabus, saying that even if our passion for our academic calling wanes, we must “at least pretend” our enthusiasm (Our English Syllabus 86). This grin-and-bear-it idea will help us get through the tough times for we can, though not easily, pretend passion into existence.
Although C.S. Lewis is quite correct that difficulties will come, we must strive to remove all obstacles of apathy from our pursuit of God’s calling on our lives. We must strive, through every decision we make, through every contact with others, and with God through prayer and scripture, to align our life’s passion with God’s will. I witnessed the power of this synchronization in the DCM film Pray the Devil Back to Hell. The film depicted a group of Liberian women attempting to stop the bloodshed of a corrupt regime. These women were driven by a passion for peace. They pursued it the best way they could. First they protested where the president passed by, then they moved their protest to separate a conflict between the regime and the rebels. When the president still didn’t listen, they sat in front of the parliament until the president agreed to peace talks. And when the peace talks bogged down, they sat down, barring the leaders from leaving until they had resolved the conflict. The women of Liberia were both relentless and ingenious. They identified so closely with their mission that it became a passion that ran straight from their heart, coursing fluidly throughout their body and manifesting itself in actions.
The Liberian women felt their passion so strongly that it instantly manifested itself in actions. Their responses to bloodshed were instinctive, reacting to the changing circumstances. I wish I had this kind of fluidity between knowledge and action. I know God’s mission as he outlines it in history, in creation, in the world. And yet I see the mission imperfectly, blinding myself to it with petty desires. I find it endlessly frustrating that these obstacles are impossible to remove in my own strength. I believe it is God alone who can and will remove the viscosity of deliberation and pride from our lives, allowing the pure flow of God’s will through us, his chosen vessels.
Works Cited
C.S. Lewis, “A Right to Happiness”, http://www.calvin.edu/~pribeiro.html
C. S. Lewis, “Learning in Wartime”, http://www.calvin.edu/~pribeiro.html
C.S. Lewis,“Our English Syllabus”, http://www.calvin.edu/~pribeiro.html
C.S. Lewis, “The Problem of Pain”, http://www.calvin.edu/~pribeiro.html
C.S. Lewis, “The Screwtape Letters”, http://www.calvin.edu/~pribeiro.html
C.S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory”, http://www.calvin.edu/~pribeiro.html
Plantinga, Cornelius Jr. Engaging God’s World: A Reformed Vision of Faith, Learning,
and Living. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002.
The Holy Bible, New International Version
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Pray the Devil Back to Hell
The film Pray the Devil Back to Hell is a story of the women of Liberia’s successful protest of the civil. I found it refreshing that the women very quickly perceived problems and dealt with them. They didn’t necessarily deal with them the way I would have (such as stripping to avoid arrest) but the point is, they did something. Their instinctive actions against injustice were far removed from people like me who diagnose problems and muse in dorm rooms about possible solutions.
These women were driven by an urge for peace. They pursued it the best way they could. First the protested where the president passed by, then they moved their protest to separate a conflict between the regime and the rebels. When the president still didn’t listen, they sat in front of the parliament until the president agreed to peace talks. And when the peace talks bogged down, they sat down, barring the leaders from leaving until they had resolved the conflict. The women of Liberia were both relentless and ingenious.
It was inspiring to see what happens when people believe in something as strongly as the women believed in peace for their country. Their belief was so strong that their instant decisions as to how best get peace were so instinctive, their desire flowed over directly into action.
And yet these women were not idealists. One of the leaders said “peace is not an event but a process.” These women understood that the going would not be easy, and yet I noticed that they never felt defeated because of the strength with which they held to their convictions.
The unfaltering drive of these women is truly admirable, and I suppose something that Christians ideally have. Watching this film, I understood the value and immense good a person can do if they become a conduit for good.
These women were driven by an urge for peace. They pursued it the best way they could. First the protested where the president passed by, then they moved their protest to separate a conflict between the regime and the rebels. When the president still didn’t listen, they sat in front of the parliament until the president agreed to peace talks. And when the peace talks bogged down, they sat down, barring the leaders from leaving until they had resolved the conflict. The women of Liberia were both relentless and ingenious.
It was inspiring to see what happens when people believe in something as strongly as the women believed in peace for their country. Their belief was so strong that their instant decisions as to how best get peace were so instinctive, their desire flowed over directly into action.
And yet these women were not idealists. One of the leaders said “peace is not an event but a process.” These women understood that the going would not be easy, and yet I noticed that they never felt defeated because of the strength with which they held to their convictions.
The unfaltering drive of these women is truly admirable, and I suppose something that Christians ideally have. Watching this film, I understood the value and immense good a person can do if they become a conduit for good.
Human Pain
When a calf rolls its eyes, it is a signal of intense pain or terror. But whenever you seek to halter train a calf, so that it will be willing to wear a halter and follow your lead, it will inevitably roll it’s eyes, panting heavily. The calf will begin gasping for air, as if the mere fact that you have tied it to a pole is killing it. And yet this is the only way to tame a calf.
It is possible to try to train a calf by coaxing it with little treats and speaking to it. It may become quite tame, following you around. But as soon as the halter goes on, the calf will be back to square one, baulking and straining at the halter. No, the only way to truly train a calf is by “breaking it” by showing it that it is useless to resist the path that you have chosen for it.
From the perspective of cows watching, this is cruel. In fact, I don’t know that those dear bovines could ever understand. Even when they are standing under the lights of a show ring groomed to perfection with a champion’s ribbon hanging from their halter, the cows probably are just thinking: it’s rather bright and can’t I get my hay soon?
But under those same lights stands the farmer, dressed in his all-white show uniform, beaming with pride at his cow –this is what she was born and trained to be. He is eager to show her to the world in all her bovine glory.
This glow of pride that a farmer feels towards his cow is, in a way, like the pride God takes in us after he has tempered us towards his plan. But Lewis points out that this is a very painful process. Lewis says that, to “render our will which we have so long claimed for our own, is in itself...a grievous pain.”
So why use the cow example? To show that the purpose of pain is rarely understood by those experiencing it. In the same way that you could never explain to a cow why it is “worth it” so we will never be satisfied with any explanation. Simply because His ways are higher than our ways.
That is why we will experience pain, because our ways are different than his, and when these differences are highlighted through pain, it will feel like our ways are being derailed. Because they are. We are going through the painful process of conforming to God’s will. And when we finally stand in the ring, we will, through his leading, be more than champions.
It is possible to try to train a calf by coaxing it with little treats and speaking to it. It may become quite tame, following you around. But as soon as the halter goes on, the calf will be back to square one, baulking and straining at the halter. No, the only way to truly train a calf is by “breaking it” by showing it that it is useless to resist the path that you have chosen for it.
From the perspective of cows watching, this is cruel. In fact, I don’t know that those dear bovines could ever understand. Even when they are standing under the lights of a show ring groomed to perfection with a champion’s ribbon hanging from their halter, the cows probably are just thinking: it’s rather bright and can’t I get my hay soon?
But under those same lights stands the farmer, dressed in his all-white show uniform, beaming with pride at his cow –this is what she was born and trained to be. He is eager to show her to the world in all her bovine glory.
This glow of pride that a farmer feels towards his cow is, in a way, like the pride God takes in us after he has tempered us towards his plan. But Lewis points out that this is a very painful process. Lewis says that, to “render our will which we have so long claimed for our own, is in itself...a grievous pain.”
So why use the cow example? To show that the purpose of pain is rarely understood by those experiencing it. In the same way that you could never explain to a cow why it is “worth it” so we will never be satisfied with any explanation. Simply because His ways are higher than our ways.
That is why we will experience pain, because our ways are different than his, and when these differences are highlighted through pain, it will feel like our ways are being derailed. Because they are. We are going through the painful process of conforming to God’s will. And when we finally stand in the ring, we will, through his leading, be more than champions.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Man or Rabbit?
Please forgive me,Professor Ribeiro, but I don’t entirely agree with C.S. Lewis here.
I don’t disagree with his logic. From my vantage point, Lewis quite clearly points out that the question “Can’t I be good without believing in Christianity?” is an attempt to evade Christ, to actually delve into matters. Those who ask such a question simply want to justify their lifestyle without exposing themselves to the rather unsettling possibility that Christianity must be true.
No, I fault Lewis not for anything he does, but for his manner of approach. This is not altogether his fault. I believe that Lewis’s premise, that it is “obviously the job of ever man (that is a man and not a rabbit) to try to find out which, and then to devote his full energies either to serving this tremendous secret or exposing and destroying this gigantic humbug” is not correct. I believe it is the job of every man to seek the truth and follow it whole heartedly. But I do not believe that this task is necessarily obvious to this current world.
I would suggest that the question asked by the postmodern world is not “Is it true?” but “Is it good and useful?” To illustrate, a professor once told me about debates a famous atheist, Richard Dawkins I believe, would have with various Christians. Dawkin’s knockout blow was always “What trait do Christians have to offer the world that non-Christians cannot?” I don’t desire to answer the question here (but I dare say it is an interesting question). Instead, the fact that this question was asked (and unanswered!) signals that this is a world of pragmatism. If something is of little use, it is quite outdated and worth throwing out.
So I think Lewis’s assumption that people have an over whelming desire to know the truth is somewhat outmoded by pragmatism. Or at least, this desire is very much obscured by questions of “What’s the use if it doesn’t make a difference.”
But this is not a criticism of Lewis, because it is unfair to ask him to foresee this rise of pragmatism. I just think it is important to understand the difference of people’s approach to Christianity then and now. From the little I’ve seen, people are disenchanted with the Church as intolerant and self-serving. They see it as a crutch for hypocrites. Its mission of justice and mercy has been tainted by those seeking it as a placebo to ease their conscience as they continue about their lives unchanged. And the pragmatism of the day is not impressed. “It is useless,” it says, “let us shed this Church altogether.”
To my mind, the only argument we can make to pragmatism is one of action. We must have good news, justice, and mercy to offer this world.
I don’t disagree with his logic. From my vantage point, Lewis quite clearly points out that the question “Can’t I be good without believing in Christianity?” is an attempt to evade Christ, to actually delve into matters. Those who ask such a question simply want to justify their lifestyle without exposing themselves to the rather unsettling possibility that Christianity must be true.
No, I fault Lewis not for anything he does, but for his manner of approach. This is not altogether his fault. I believe that Lewis’s premise, that it is “obviously the job of ever man (that is a man and not a rabbit) to try to find out which, and then to devote his full energies either to serving this tremendous secret or exposing and destroying this gigantic humbug” is not correct. I believe it is the job of every man to seek the truth and follow it whole heartedly. But I do not believe that this task is necessarily obvious to this current world.
I would suggest that the question asked by the postmodern world is not “Is it true?” but “Is it good and useful?” To illustrate, a professor once told me about debates a famous atheist, Richard Dawkins I believe, would have with various Christians. Dawkin’s knockout blow was always “What trait do Christians have to offer the world that non-Christians cannot?” I don’t desire to answer the question here (but I dare say it is an interesting question). Instead, the fact that this question was asked (and unanswered!) signals that this is a world of pragmatism. If something is of little use, it is quite outdated and worth throwing out.
So I think Lewis’s assumption that people have an over whelming desire to know the truth is somewhat outmoded by pragmatism. Or at least, this desire is very much obscured by questions of “What’s the use if it doesn’t make a difference.”
But this is not a criticism of Lewis, because it is unfair to ask him to foresee this rise of pragmatism. I just think it is important to understand the difference of people’s approach to Christianity then and now. From the little I’ve seen, people are disenchanted with the Church as intolerant and self-serving. They see it as a crutch for hypocrites. Its mission of justice and mercy has been tainted by those seeking it as a placebo to ease their conscience as they continue about their lives unchanged. And the pragmatism of the day is not impressed. “It is useless,” it says, “let us shed this Church altogether.”
To my mind, the only argument we can make to pragmatism is one of action. We must have good news, justice, and mercy to offer this world.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Engaging God's World: Vocation in the Kingdom of God
A verse that keeps coming back to me whenever I reflect on my life is Galatians 5:16-17.
So I say, live by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature. 17For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want.
For I see in my life an immense struggle. I constantly let myself down, and it’s not because I don’t know what I should be. I have a Church, a Bible, a Christian Family, and a Christian education. All of these teach me how I should live. But, if I have such a clear idea of right and wrong (by this I mean the little day to day things...there are gray areas in life but if we gave most choices a little thought or sought a little counsel, the answer should become quite apparent) then why is it that I end up cursing myself, my own stupidity? I know what it is that I desire and yet I let a thousand small desires pull me down. The fact that this frustration has happened every day of my existence is disheartening.
But of course, there are good times too. There are wonderful concerts, there are essays that seem to write themselves, the satisfaction of an early morning, and the thrill of helping an eager peer. There are also a thousand little successes that bring me joy and encouragement every day.
But there is something that seems irreconcilable here. How can I experience so much joy and success in my endeavours, and yet constantly be brought down by constant short comings, by desires that spring from within?
John Calvin points out that an unredeemed life keeps oscillating back and forth between pride and despair. I see where he is coming from. These two competing forces never reconcile, leaving me sometimes fully confident, sometimes convinced that I will never overcome myself. This oscillation is very wearying.
But Plantinga points out that God’s redemption, correctly viewed, should give us security. If we surrender our life to God, accepting His inevitable, unstoppable redemptive plan for his world, we can take solace that the right wins. If I can see the triumphant conclusion that God is working, I am given reason to peel myself off the floor after failing yet again.
The beautiful thing about redemption is that by surrendering our will to God’s redemptive power, we also surrender any credit, any pride that we could take in our successes. Our successes become God’s successes. Our failures and successes absolutely disappear when we surrender them to the working of God’s will for his world. Because that is one mission we can be sure will not fail.
So I say, live by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature. 17For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want.
For I see in my life an immense struggle. I constantly let myself down, and it’s not because I don’t know what I should be. I have a Church, a Bible, a Christian Family, and a Christian education. All of these teach me how I should live. But, if I have such a clear idea of right and wrong (by this I mean the little day to day things...there are gray areas in life but if we gave most choices a little thought or sought a little counsel, the answer should become quite apparent) then why is it that I end up cursing myself, my own stupidity? I know what it is that I desire and yet I let a thousand small desires pull me down. The fact that this frustration has happened every day of my existence is disheartening.
But of course, there are good times too. There are wonderful concerts, there are essays that seem to write themselves, the satisfaction of an early morning, and the thrill of helping an eager peer. There are also a thousand little successes that bring me joy and encouragement every day.
But there is something that seems irreconcilable here. How can I experience so much joy and success in my endeavours, and yet constantly be brought down by constant short comings, by desires that spring from within?
John Calvin points out that an unredeemed life keeps oscillating back and forth between pride and despair. I see where he is coming from. These two competing forces never reconcile, leaving me sometimes fully confident, sometimes convinced that I will never overcome myself. This oscillation is very wearying.
But Plantinga points out that God’s redemption, correctly viewed, should give us security. If we surrender our life to God, accepting His inevitable, unstoppable redemptive plan for his world, we can take solace that the right wins. If I can see the triumphant conclusion that God is working, I am given reason to peel myself off the floor after failing yet again.
The beautiful thing about redemption is that by surrendering our will to God’s redemptive power, we also surrender any credit, any pride that we could take in our successes. Our successes become God’s successes. Our failures and successes absolutely disappear when we surrender them to the working of God’s will for his world. Because that is one mission we can be sure will not fail.
The Inner Ring
C. S. Lewis suggests that an inner circle, by itself, is a neutral concept. It is something that occurs quite naturally. It is formed because of limits of time, space, interest, and a myriad of other factors. An inner ring is something that occurs when people have any commonality and build bonds over these similarities.
But an inner ring is easily corrupted. “The Inner Ring,” says Lewis, “is most skilful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things.” You see, the inner ring wields a certain power. It is a great influencer and encourager. I think it quite unlikely that people can escape being changed by the inner circle that they are a part of. An inner ring that has any hope of longevity is one that shares a common purpose. If one is to remain in such a ring, eventually one must make tiny steps towards the mission of the group.
That is precisely what the Church is, of course. It is a loose conglomeration of people whose shared desire to follow in the footsteps of their saviour binds them together. These are people who share a mission. They form a ring because they have a certain understanding, a belief in how the world is supposed to be. They support, encourage, and admonish each other. By staying as a tight community, this body performs a sort of symbiosis. None remain in this Church very long without being challenged, perhaps “over a drink, or a cup of coffee, disguised as triviality, and sandwiched between two jokes” to do something out of the ordinary, for the purpose of the organization. It could be a subtle hint to help out in the nursery. “And then, if you are drawn in, next week it will be something a little further from the rules...”
This gradual change gathers force, and is unstoppable if one is truly devoted to the Inner Ring’s mission. For how can one deny the will of a body that seeks the same goals that you do? Of course, if you realize the Church’s mission wasn’t quite for you, then the constant challenge that the Church holds itself to may not be your thing. You may find that, in following their goal, the inner ring has moved quite away from where you were content to stay. You will probably find that you don’t mind and go searching for a more comfortable inner ring.
But this particular inner ring is always in danger of exclusion. It has very high expectations of itself and its members. It expects its mission to be not a part of the member’s life, but the member’s very reason to be. Because of high expectations, there is a danger that this Inner Ring will require total devotion to the mission before a person may join. It may set up walls, casting a judging eye on those who have only a small interest in following Christ’s mission. It may attempt to preserve a purity in its members.
Fortunately, such exclusion is ridiculous when we consider the Church. For its members, who follow Christ, are keenly aware that they have done nothing to deserve entrance into the Church. They too, came to the Church because of the joy they saw inside. Instead they will reach out with compassion to anyone, even the very ugliest, understanding that it is only in the Inner Ring of the Church that a person can join them in their slow but steady steps towards Christ’s Kingdom.
In short, the Church should be easy to get into, but challenging to keep up with.
But an inner ring is easily corrupted. “The Inner Ring,” says Lewis, “is most skilful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things.” You see, the inner ring wields a certain power. It is a great influencer and encourager. I think it quite unlikely that people can escape being changed by the inner circle that they are a part of. An inner ring that has any hope of longevity is one that shares a common purpose. If one is to remain in such a ring, eventually one must make tiny steps towards the mission of the group.
That is precisely what the Church is, of course. It is a loose conglomeration of people whose shared desire to follow in the footsteps of their saviour binds them together. These are people who share a mission. They form a ring because they have a certain understanding, a belief in how the world is supposed to be. They support, encourage, and admonish each other. By staying as a tight community, this body performs a sort of symbiosis. None remain in this Church very long without being challenged, perhaps “over a drink, or a cup of coffee, disguised as triviality, and sandwiched between two jokes” to do something out of the ordinary, for the purpose of the organization. It could be a subtle hint to help out in the nursery. “And then, if you are drawn in, next week it will be something a little further from the rules...”
This gradual change gathers force, and is unstoppable if one is truly devoted to the Inner Ring’s mission. For how can one deny the will of a body that seeks the same goals that you do? Of course, if you realize the Church’s mission wasn’t quite for you, then the constant challenge that the Church holds itself to may not be your thing. You may find that, in following their goal, the inner ring has moved quite away from where you were content to stay. You will probably find that you don’t mind and go searching for a more comfortable inner ring.
But this particular inner ring is always in danger of exclusion. It has very high expectations of itself and its members. It expects its mission to be not a part of the member’s life, but the member’s very reason to be. Because of high expectations, there is a danger that this Inner Ring will require total devotion to the mission before a person may join. It may set up walls, casting a judging eye on those who have only a small interest in following Christ’s mission. It may attempt to preserve a purity in its members.
Fortunately, such exclusion is ridiculous when we consider the Church. For its members, who follow Christ, are keenly aware that they have done nothing to deserve entrance into the Church. They too, came to the Church because of the joy they saw inside. Instead they will reach out with compassion to anyone, even the very ugliest, understanding that it is only in the Inner Ring of the Church that a person can join them in their slow but steady steps towards Christ’s Kingdom.
In short, the Church should be easy to get into, but challenging to keep up with.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Four Loves: Eros
My donkey Riley is one of the most indomitable creatures I know. She is horrendously ugly, her wispy hair provides scant covering for the bulges of fat that cover her flanks. She gives an asphyxiated hee-haw when I approach, and yet, on good days she is quite eager to see me and be brushed. On bad days, she just gallops away. It is impossible, as C.S.Lewis says, to either revere or hate a donkey. C.S. Lewis suggests that we look at Eros in much the same way. And with Riley as moniker for Eros, it will be difficult to deify this most treacherous of loves.
I really appreciated C.S. Lewis’s comparison of love to a garden. You see, I had become rather saddened that love was so much work. I still have this idea that marriage is kind of magical. It was self sustaining. Sure, there might be unpleasant weather, but the natural sun of Eros would clear everything up momentarily.
However, Lewis points out that Eros is not an attitude, but a fickle passion. When love first blooms, we are quite certain that the marriage relationship (which C.S. Lewis compares to a garden) will always be this way. But Lewis would tell us that this Eros is not really the natural state of a relationship in the same way that gardens are not in a state of perpetual bloom. We must learn to love the garden and to cultivate our Eros by fertilizing the soil. The true test of a good garden comes in that which we do not see. It is in the careful pruning and endless weeding. There are dry spells, spells of resentment, self-pity, suspicions, wounded vanities, and frustration. To the true gardener, the true lover, these dry spells may be trying, but they have the idea of a perfect bloom that keeps them going. And if they are quite mature, they see each bloom as a gift. Instead, what brings them joy is all the little things: the fresh green branch developing, the deadheading of a plant. And if they can see the benefits that these little acts give the garden with joy, then imagine the ecstasy experienced when a rose unfurls her maelstrom of colour.
By the time the gardener has spent some time among his plants, he has developed an interest in every little growth of the garden. In fact, if you will visit his garden with him, you will see him, as he points out the chrysanthemums, quite compulsively pulling a weed here and there. The care that his garden needs is no longer a means to the end product of beauty. Instead, it is a deep affection for these plants, a desire to serve them and see them flourish.
But I must bring Riley back in. Eros, as a donkey, is unpredictable. Sure I love her affectionate nuzzling, but it is hardly something I live for. Although a gardener loves a rose bloom, it is not sacred to him, and he will clip it and put it in a vase inside. He is content to admire it while it lasts, but will, without melancholy, put on his boots and go whistling out to pull weeds, content to be back tending his overgrown, unpredictable old friend.
I really appreciated C.S. Lewis’s comparison of love to a garden. You see, I had become rather saddened that love was so much work. I still have this idea that marriage is kind of magical. It was self sustaining. Sure, there might be unpleasant weather, but the natural sun of Eros would clear everything up momentarily.
However, Lewis points out that Eros is not an attitude, but a fickle passion. When love first blooms, we are quite certain that the marriage relationship (which C.S. Lewis compares to a garden) will always be this way. But Lewis would tell us that this Eros is not really the natural state of a relationship in the same way that gardens are not in a state of perpetual bloom. We must learn to love the garden and to cultivate our Eros by fertilizing the soil. The true test of a good garden comes in that which we do not see. It is in the careful pruning and endless weeding. There are dry spells, spells of resentment, self-pity, suspicions, wounded vanities, and frustration. To the true gardener, the true lover, these dry spells may be trying, but they have the idea of a perfect bloom that keeps them going. And if they are quite mature, they see each bloom as a gift. Instead, what brings them joy is all the little things: the fresh green branch developing, the deadheading of a plant. And if they can see the benefits that these little acts give the garden with joy, then imagine the ecstasy experienced when a rose unfurls her maelstrom of colour.
By the time the gardener has spent some time among his plants, he has developed an interest in every little growth of the garden. In fact, if you will visit his garden with him, you will see him, as he points out the chrysanthemums, quite compulsively pulling a weed here and there. The care that his garden needs is no longer a means to the end product of beauty. Instead, it is a deep affection for these plants, a desire to serve them and see them flourish.
But I must bring Riley back in. Eros, as a donkey, is unpredictable. Sure I love her affectionate nuzzling, but it is hardly something I live for. Although a gardener loves a rose bloom, it is not sacred to him, and he will clip it and put it in a vase inside. He is content to admire it while it lasts, but will, without melancholy, put on his boots and go whistling out to pull weeds, content to be back tending his overgrown, unpredictable old friend.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Engaging God's World: Redemption
Plantinga writes that “Moses emerges with God’s Ten Commandments, a set of requirements that people have to fulfill not in order to get rescued by God from slavery, but because they have been rescued.” This hardly seems desirable. As God’s treasured possession, they must joyfully carry out a myriad of laws. Obedience to God is costly. It can be a desert, inhospitable to human desires. One can no longer eat the leeks of Egypt after crossing the Red Sea. And yet we are to believe this is a whole and more complete life.
But what of freedom: Liberty or death? Why would we willingly give up our freedom? Well, no we wouldn’t, except we have really no freedom to give up. Freedom is not endless time to do whatever we want. I, at least, find myself using “free” time to mostly do things I regret: over sleep, over-Facebook, over-youtube, or some other regrettable indulgence. This is the natural lethargy, the “wilting” as Plantinga calls it, that I fall into. It is only restrictions on my time that jolt me into studying, into meaningful contact with others. From my own experience, it is only deadlines that goad me into completing anything.
But deadlines, homework, they cramp my style, restricting my freedom. And it’s then that I realize that freedom is not so important as living a worthy life. I desire not to live a life of luxuriating in indolence, but one of meaning where nothing I do, whether working or playing, is regretted.
So the limit of time streamlines me into prioritizing. But the limit of God’s law also streamlines my actions. Though I may break his law, its presence, and the threat of guilt, prod me towards the straight and narrow. And when I look back, that’s really where I want to be.
The world that Plantinga describes, where everybody follows the Ten Commandments completely is one, I think, all of us would want to live in. What is so cramping about that? If the world that God’s law would create is what the image-of-God, eternal soul of me truly wants, then won’t the limits of God’s law shear off the practices of the fallen self? If God’s law can free me from my old self, then it is a law I should obey gladly.
But what of freedom: Liberty or death? Why would we willingly give up our freedom? Well, no we wouldn’t, except we have really no freedom to give up. Freedom is not endless time to do whatever we want. I, at least, find myself using “free” time to mostly do things I regret: over sleep, over-Facebook, over-youtube, or some other regrettable indulgence. This is the natural lethargy, the “wilting” as Plantinga calls it, that I fall into. It is only restrictions on my time that jolt me into studying, into meaningful contact with others. From my own experience, it is only deadlines that goad me into completing anything.
But deadlines, homework, they cramp my style, restricting my freedom. And it’s then that I realize that freedom is not so important as living a worthy life. I desire not to live a life of luxuriating in indolence, but one of meaning where nothing I do, whether working or playing, is regretted.
So the limit of time streamlines me into prioritizing. But the limit of God’s law also streamlines my actions. Though I may break his law, its presence, and the threat of guilt, prod me towards the straight and narrow. And when I look back, that’s really where I want to be.
The world that Plantinga describes, where everybody follows the Ten Commandments completely is one, I think, all of us would want to live in. What is so cramping about that? If the world that God’s law would create is what the image-of-God, eternal soul of me truly wants, then won’t the limits of God’s law shear off the practices of the fallen self? If God’s law can free me from my old self, then it is a law I should obey gladly.
Learning in War-Time
I have a very dear friend who recently told me “I don’t think I can be a history major anymore. It’s interesting enough, but it just doesn’t seem all that relevant.” She is quite involved in social justice, and continued, “I feel like the names of kings don’t matter at all. What good will they do?” My friend is now switching her history major to a minor, and taking up international relations.
This is why I am a most reluctant history major. I bashfully reveal my major to others with an air of uncertainty. It is difficult to acknowledge you are majoring in something most people see as a pleasant past time.
And really, what is the use of study old things? Why should I be pining over the housing structures of the Vikings when I could be pursuing just relations in Sudan through diplomacy? Sure I understand, as C.S.Lewis points out, that:
We need intimate knowledge of the past. Not that the past has any magic about it, but because we cannot study the future, and yet need something to set against the present, to remind us that...much which seems certain to the uneducated is merely temporary fashion.
But still, am I needed to have an intimate knowledge of the past? Does not Jesus call his disciples to drop everything and follow him? Should I not drop my own rather selfish interest in history as something pleasurable in favour of helping the world, through diplomacy, or even something like living simply, perhaps as a carpenter, helping those around me.
I have difficulty with Lewis’s “spring where you are planted” approach because that is not what God calls his people to do very often. He tears people out of their community in Ur and yanks them along the fertile crescent into Canaan. He asks a rich man to leave all behind and follow him as a disciple. I have a problem with God’s call always being where we think our passions and gifts and situation most conveiently lie.
But on the other hand, what was of some comfort to me was Lewis’s comment, “there may seem to be an almost comic discrepancy between the high issues we have been considering and the immediate task you may be set down to do.” And Lewis said that such activity just proves those who are both humble and tough.
Although I should never be quite comfortable where I am, and be ready to tear up my stakes when God leads me, I must also work diligently in the position God has set before me, remembering Milton:
God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
This is why I am a most reluctant history major. I bashfully reveal my major to others with an air of uncertainty. It is difficult to acknowledge you are majoring in something most people see as a pleasant past time.
And really, what is the use of study old things? Why should I be pining over the housing structures of the Vikings when I could be pursuing just relations in Sudan through diplomacy? Sure I understand, as C.S.Lewis points out, that:
We need intimate knowledge of the past. Not that the past has any magic about it, but because we cannot study the future, and yet need something to set against the present, to remind us that...much which seems certain to the uneducated is merely temporary fashion.
But still, am I needed to have an intimate knowledge of the past? Does not Jesus call his disciples to drop everything and follow him? Should I not drop my own rather selfish interest in history as something pleasurable in favour of helping the world, through diplomacy, or even something like living simply, perhaps as a carpenter, helping those around me.
I have difficulty with Lewis’s “spring where you are planted” approach because that is not what God calls his people to do very often. He tears people out of their community in Ur and yanks them along the fertile crescent into Canaan. He asks a rich man to leave all behind and follow him as a disciple. I have a problem with God’s call always being where we think our passions and gifts and situation most conveiently lie.
But on the other hand, what was of some comfort to me was Lewis’s comment, “there may seem to be an almost comic discrepancy between the high issues we have been considering and the immediate task you may be set down to do.” And Lewis said that such activity just proves those who are both humble and tough.
Although I should never be quite comfortable where I am, and be ready to tear up my stakes when God leads me, I must also work diligently in the position God has set before me, remembering Milton:
God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Engaging God's World: Fall
I believe a question raised in yesterday’s discussion was “can a surgeon be ‘good’ by doing heart surgery, regardless of his motivation, or consequences of his actions?” I would argue that even if the surgeon’s motivation might have been to seduce a nurse with his surgical finesse, or that the successful operation might allow our favourite paragon of evil, Hitler, to live, the action was good.
However, I respect the question, and as such I will not resolve it but merely throw in some definitions of words that might streamline discussion.
The first two definitions are provided by Plantinga. He says that evil is a sort of intrinsic disturbance of shalom. It is an objective disturbance of shalom. These actions that are intrinsically evil are ways the world is not supposed to be. For example, droughts, earthquakes, strokes, mental illness. As well, the horrible cases of accidental deaths. These actions are not committed with any evil intent. Rather, they are a result of the fall. It is the way things are in world where a path of rebellion has decided the trajectory of our universe.
Sin, on the other hand, is culpable evil. It is a motivational disturbance of shalom. It is a conscious effort, regardless of impact, to disturb shalom.
Then we get into virtue and good. Good is an action, it is an objective construction of shalom. It is the blossoming of flowers and of young love. It is, most tangibly, helping others out, participating in healing this world and its inhabitants.
And this brings us to the heart of the matter, virtue. Virtue, according to my definition, is what we are really after. Virtue is a motivational affirmation of shalom.
But what is most intriguing is that with these definitions, virtue is independent of good. I believe God allows a repealing of shalom (say, killing a person) in some extenuating circumstances. He might even call it virtue. I also believe motivation cannot be used to justify evil deeds, but God will judge people not always according to their works, but to their motivations. Why must God always be repealing and making modifications? Why must he always be intervening? I don’t think He must.
However, I respect the question, and as such I will not resolve it but merely throw in some definitions of words that might streamline discussion.
The first two definitions are provided by Plantinga. He says that evil is a sort of intrinsic disturbance of shalom. It is an objective disturbance of shalom. These actions that are intrinsically evil are ways the world is not supposed to be. For example, droughts, earthquakes, strokes, mental illness. As well, the horrible cases of accidental deaths. These actions are not committed with any evil intent. Rather, they are a result of the fall. It is the way things are in world where a path of rebellion has decided the trajectory of our universe.
Sin, on the other hand, is culpable evil. It is a motivational disturbance of shalom. It is a conscious effort, regardless of impact, to disturb shalom.
Then we get into virtue and good. Good is an action, it is an objective construction of shalom. It is the blossoming of flowers and of young love. It is, most tangibly, helping others out, participating in healing this world and its inhabitants.
And this brings us to the heart of the matter, virtue. Virtue, according to my definition, is what we are really after. Virtue is a motivational affirmation of shalom.
But what is most intriguing is that with these definitions, virtue is independent of good. I believe God allows a repealing of shalom (say, killing a person) in some extenuating circumstances. He might even call it virtue. I also believe motivation cannot be used to justify evil deeds, but God will judge people not always according to their works, but to their motivations. Why must God always be repealing and making modifications? Why must he always be intervening? I don’t think He must.
The Poison of Subjectivism
I think that the natural law that C.S. Lewis speaks of is probably best paralleled by air. Everybody breaths it, everybody is surrounded by it, nobody would live without. Its effect has been observed by men and women for centuries (or at least since atmospheric effect first crept into the background of paintings). And, of course, when Sumerian scientists studied the flight patterns of an arrow, they would realize that range was compromised by drag. And even if they didn’t quite have the formulas down, if they happened to look up they would have birds fly through, well, something, because they’re obviously not floating.
So it is with the natural law. It is all around us, everyone experiences it, and it is certainly not a modern invention. But that is the problem. It is so universal and ever-present that we haven’t bothered to acknowledge its existence. It is like our cornea. We all have one. But I really doubt we give it much thought in our day to day existence.
But I think it is easier to believe in corneas than in a natural law. How do we know that we have corneas? Well, I imagine most of us have found out from some anatomy lecture, because other people can see our corneas when our eyes are seen in profile. The fact is, we are only aware of our corneas because something other than our own vision tells us they are there. Whether it is another person observing it, or maybe because every morning we feel it our fingertips as we put our contacts in. The natural law, then, is more difficult to tease out because it totally envelops our entire moral sense –everyone’s sense- there is nobody to tell us, from an outside perspective (save, perhaps, some silly “sacred book”) what the natural law is. In fact, among men and women, I don’t think this outside perspective exists.
And yet I respect C.S. Lewis attempts to show us that if something is so universally obvious as to escape perception, it is also so obvious as to allow a common starting ground for everybody in establishing first an order, and then a great orderer.
So it is with the natural law. It is all around us, everyone experiences it, and it is certainly not a modern invention. But that is the problem. It is so universal and ever-present that we haven’t bothered to acknowledge its existence. It is like our cornea. We all have one. But I really doubt we give it much thought in our day to day existence.
But I think it is easier to believe in corneas than in a natural law. How do we know that we have corneas? Well, I imagine most of us have found out from some anatomy lecture, because other people can see our corneas when our eyes are seen in profile. The fact is, we are only aware of our corneas because something other than our own vision tells us they are there. Whether it is another person observing it, or maybe because every morning we feel it our fingertips as we put our contacts in. The natural law, then, is more difficult to tease out because it totally envelops our entire moral sense –everyone’s sense- there is nobody to tell us, from an outside perspective (save, perhaps, some silly “sacred book”) what the natural law is. In fact, among men and women, I don’t think this outside perspective exists.
And yet I respect C.S. Lewis attempts to show us that if something is so universally obvious as to escape perception, it is also so obvious as to allow a common starting ground for everybody in establishing first an order, and then a great orderer.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Mere Christianity
I had difficulty believing that it could be proved that a natural law exists. But Lewis’s highly distilled version of a moral law proved quite difficult to deny. The fact that all men have an idea of what they “ought” to do, a feeling independent of personal desires indicates a moral standard higher than one that humans can uphold. Lewis points out that the only way we can blame people for anything is if we believe there is a common moral standard shared by all. We must believe that there is something beyond our own perceptions that dictates truth. Even the possibility of argument is grounded in an objective moral standard.
C.S. Lewis went on to point out that our moral sense cannot be simple instinct because we know, or at least recognize in others, that instincts can be taken too far. As Lewis points out, even innocent impulses like mothering instincts, can turn quite cruel, and cause a parent to treat other children unfairly. We would do well to heed Lewis’s warning that we must not let impulses become confused with the moral law. Just because we entertain a loyalty to our friends, we must not let that loyalty guide us into extremes. In fact, loyalty can be deadly. It was Hitler’s fierce loyalty to Germany that led him to seek its revival and make a scapegoat of the Jews for Germany’s problems.
So, if this moral law cannot be explained as an impulse (which, I think, is how it is generally explained away today), then we face a real problem. We face a moral law that is undeniable, because each one of us has experienced it, yet cannot be explained within this natural world. We are left with little choice except to acknowledge that there must be something beyond.
C.S. Lewis went on to point out that our moral sense cannot be simple instinct because we know, or at least recognize in others, that instincts can be taken too far. As Lewis points out, even innocent impulses like mothering instincts, can turn quite cruel, and cause a parent to treat other children unfairly. We would do well to heed Lewis’s warning that we must not let impulses become confused with the moral law. Just because we entertain a loyalty to our friends, we must not let that loyalty guide us into extremes. In fact, loyalty can be deadly. It was Hitler’s fierce loyalty to Germany that led him to seek its revival and make a scapegoat of the Jews for Germany’s problems.
So, if this moral law cannot be explained as an impulse (which, I think, is how it is generally explained away today), then we face a real problem. We face a moral law that is undeniable, because each one of us has experienced it, yet cannot be explained within this natural world. We are left with little choice except to acknowledge that there must be something beyond.
The Screwtape Letters: Letter XII
The devil must be very careful when dealing with us humans. He must be carefully because deep down we are not programmed to his advantage. Augustine says “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you.” This is a program that we can never really leave, because it is within. The prodigal son, for example, did not need any outside force to convince himself that he had done wrong. Instead he “came to himself” realizing, quite of his own volition, that this was not the way it was supposed to be. So the devil must be careful to numb us, slowly and subtly, to prevent us from awakening to our position.
So the way to corrupt a human is to fragment him. It is necessary, as Lewis says, to give him a “cloud of half-conscious guilt”. If a sin is small enough, if it is insignificant, it is a small enough blemish to ignore, as it is not worth correcting. And of course, once a sin is established as rather bad, but not worth correcting, it can be repeated without too much guilt. And with repetition, the sin becomes more and more difficult to peel off. Eventually, the sin must be regarded as normal.
And this is where things begin to fragment. One can still believe in God, but at the same develop a morality divergent from a Christian one. This fragmentation, this holding onto a double standard, is made possible by never thinking too deeply about what it means to follow Christ. It involves a perpetual avoidance of true contemplation. Only by holding these two standards at arm’s length, and squinting at them, can a person be prevented from seeing their inconsistencies. As C.S. Lewis says, when one begins to avoid contemplation, any activity, any “dreary flickering of the mind” will be a welcome distraction.
So the way to corrupt a human is to fragment him. It is necessary, as Lewis says, to give him a “cloud of half-conscious guilt”. If a sin is small enough, if it is insignificant, it is a small enough blemish to ignore, as it is not worth correcting. And of course, once a sin is established as rather bad, but not worth correcting, it can be repeated without too much guilt. And with repetition, the sin becomes more and more difficult to peel off. Eventually, the sin must be regarded as normal.
And this is where things begin to fragment. One can still believe in God, but at the same develop a morality divergent from a Christian one. This fragmentation, this holding onto a double standard, is made possible by never thinking too deeply about what it means to follow Christ. It involves a perpetual avoidance of true contemplation. Only by holding these two standards at arm’s length, and squinting at them, can a person be prevented from seeing their inconsistencies. As C.S. Lewis says, when one begins to avoid contemplation, any activity, any “dreary flickering of the mind” will be a welcome distraction.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Engaging God's World: Creation
I think that one of the greatest desires of the human is perfect communion with others. We want the perfect spouse, parents who love us and who we can appreciate in return. I know this sounds angsty, but many of our attempts at impressing others are out of desire for others to notice us, to make ourselves more appealing, to stack the odds of us being worthy of communion with others. I don’t know how to explain exactly why we have this great desire to please others and be pleasing to them, but it is very apparent to me that we are not made to be alone.
For clarification, I shall use Plantinga’s definition of perichoresis (The communion experienced by the trinity) as a working definition of communion. It occurs when each person “harbours the others at the center of his being. In a constant movement of overture and acceptance, each person envelops and encircles the others.” This perfect communion is what humans, in our strange, needy way, strive for. This striving could take the form of baking cookies or using a large vocabulary. Really, these strivings are any way that we show other people that we are interested in them, that we love them, and we want them to love us. As such, I would call these strivings art.
Because art is an expression of what we feel. Sure art is often made to imitate reality, but it is always a reality that the artist wants you to see. It is an expression, a reaching out. Art is a song that strives to tell people about a world that they want to share. It is the first tendril of a communion.
Plantinga suggests that we are God’s expression of imaginative love. God the artist has no need for communion as we do, for he has his Trinitarian self. But, although he doesn’t need to love as we do, he desperately wants to love. God, then, created us his art because he so loves to love. He didn’t need us as his art, but he loves us because in us he sees potential for the perfect communion he has within the trinity.
For art is not for art’s sake. It is not a self-gratification. It is a satellite signal, probing the universe for sign of life. An artist either wants her work hated or loved, for that is why it was made. The only reaction an artist can’t abide is to have her art ignored.
For clarification, I shall use Plantinga’s definition of perichoresis (The communion experienced by the trinity) as a working definition of communion. It occurs when each person “harbours the others at the center of his being. In a constant movement of overture and acceptance, each person envelops and encircles the others.” This perfect communion is what humans, in our strange, needy way, strive for. This striving could take the form of baking cookies or using a large vocabulary. Really, these strivings are any way that we show other people that we are interested in them, that we love them, and we want them to love us. As such, I would call these strivings art.
Because art is an expression of what we feel. Sure art is often made to imitate reality, but it is always a reality that the artist wants you to see. It is an expression, a reaching out. Art is a song that strives to tell people about a world that they want to share. It is the first tendril of a communion.
Plantinga suggests that we are God’s expression of imaginative love. God the artist has no need for communion as we do, for he has his Trinitarian self. But, although he doesn’t need to love as we do, he desperately wants to love. God, then, created us his art because he so loves to love. He didn’t need us as his art, but he loves us because in us he sees potential for the perfect communion he has within the trinity.
For art is not for art’s sake. It is not a self-gratification. It is a satellite signal, probing the universe for sign of life. An artist either wants her work hated or loved, for that is why it was made. The only reaction an artist can’t abide is to have her art ignored.
The Weight of Glory
If my dorm were to burn down tonight, the first thing I would grab on my way out would be my sketch book. The sketches I have put into those pages are my most cherished possessions. It is not easy to quantify my attachment. It is not that I have spent so much time on these sketches as if it would be a shame to have that effort wasted, because many of these are quick sketches. I value these quick sketches because they are brief glimpses of how I see the world.
I confess that whether my sketches turn out the way I wanted it to, the way I had envisioned it, can determine how I feel on a particular day. So my sketches bear a lot responsibility. They bear the weight of my glory, as it were.
But if I think of myself as a work of art, I realize how ludicrous it is to take pride in myself. I am entirely the work of my artist. C.S. Lewis talks about this, saying that the weight of glory is, “a load so heavy that only humility can carry it.” This resonates with the Rule of St. Benedict from the 6th century which outlines the qualities needed in an abbot. The most important virtue in an abbot, according to Benedict, is not devotion to doctrine or immersion in the scripture (though they are important), but total humility because of the responsibility that an abbot has over his abbey. So, on a smaller scale are we.
So we are deeply valued and loved, as outpourings of God’s vision, as his art. But as art we seek glory only for our artist, to whom all glory is due.
I confess that whether my sketches turn out the way I wanted it to, the way I had envisioned it, can determine how I feel on a particular day. So my sketches bear a lot responsibility. They bear the weight of my glory, as it were.
But if I think of myself as a work of art, I realize how ludicrous it is to take pride in myself. I am entirely the work of my artist. C.S. Lewis talks about this, saying that the weight of glory is, “a load so heavy that only humility can carry it.” This resonates with the Rule of St. Benedict from the 6th century which outlines the qualities needed in an abbot. The most important virtue in an abbot, according to Benedict, is not devotion to doctrine or immersion in the scripture (though they are important), but total humility because of the responsibility that an abbot has over his abbey. So, on a smaller scale are we.
So we are deeply valued and loved, as outpourings of God’s vision, as his art. But as art we seek glory only for our artist, to whom all glory is due.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Our English Syllabus
I found Our English Syllabus troubling because C.S. Lewis’s vision for College is so divergent from what we do at Calvin College.
We emphasize a large breadth of courses, coaxing students into tasting many areas of education. Lectures are given, telling students about areas that they may, or may not, be interested in. Calvin believes it knows how to make us into better people, and will do what is best for us, whether we like it or not.
C.S. Lewis takes quite a different stance. He believes that colleges are “not for teaching but for the pursuit of knowledge.” He believes that “the student is, or ought to be, a young man who is already beginning to follow learning for its own sake.” By this point in our lives, we should have an idea of what we’re interested in, and be eagerly pursuing knowledge because our cultivated curiosity. Recognizing the limitations of time, we thus are to seek a depth of knowledge in our area of interest. By “exhaustively” (I use the term hesitantly) studying a subject, we will be teaching ourselves and benefiting from feedback, not instructions, from our professors.
But I have a problem with this vision. It is far too narrow. I realize that specialization must occur, and we must not be enslaved to people’s opinions of what a general overview of subject is (which seems to be what a core class is). But I think the opposing danger is one of being enslaved to our own opinion. Independent study can be similarly poisonous (Think of certain website “scholars”). I think C.S. Lewis places too much confidence in students. We are incapable of having an objective view on a subject, and need the diversification of perspective that Calvin’s core curriculum offers.
And yet C. S. Lewis is also right to place confidence in students. He is not such an idealist as to believe everyone is excited about learning, especially not all the time. He rather encourages us, and I think this is crucial, to at least pretend. For our own sakes, students need to force themselves into enthusiasm. If we believe that education is a good thing, we should feel obligated to adopt some sort of pretence of excitement.
We emphasize a large breadth of courses, coaxing students into tasting many areas of education. Lectures are given, telling students about areas that they may, or may not, be interested in. Calvin believes it knows how to make us into better people, and will do what is best for us, whether we like it or not.
C.S. Lewis takes quite a different stance. He believes that colleges are “not for teaching but for the pursuit of knowledge.” He believes that “the student is, or ought to be, a young man who is already beginning to follow learning for its own sake.” By this point in our lives, we should have an idea of what we’re interested in, and be eagerly pursuing knowledge because our cultivated curiosity. Recognizing the limitations of time, we thus are to seek a depth of knowledge in our area of interest. By “exhaustively” (I use the term hesitantly) studying a subject, we will be teaching ourselves and benefiting from feedback, not instructions, from our professors.
But I have a problem with this vision. It is far too narrow. I realize that specialization must occur, and we must not be enslaved to people’s opinions of what a general overview of subject is (which seems to be what a core class is). But I think the opposing danger is one of being enslaved to our own opinion. Independent study can be similarly poisonous (Think of certain website “scholars”). I think C.S. Lewis places too much confidence in students. We are incapable of having an objective view on a subject, and need the diversification of perspective that Calvin’s core curriculum offers.
And yet C. S. Lewis is also right to place confidence in students. He is not such an idealist as to believe everyone is excited about learning, especially not all the time. He rather encourages us, and I think this is crucial, to at least pretend. For our own sakes, students need to force themselves into enthusiasm. If we believe that education is a good thing, we should feel obligated to adopt some sort of pretence of excitement.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Engaging God's World: Longing & Hope
The frailty of humanity can best be seen in our successes, with what we are content to call satisfying. “We are half-hearted creatures,” says Lewis, “fooling about with drink and sex”. In our quest for home we all too easily settle for a park bench.
I understand why we settle, why we are too easily pleased with pursuit of sensual pleasures. All we see is the world, this pale world of inns and park benches. We try again and again to attain permanent contentment, but our longing is never fulfilled.
This leads to two responses: settling for what happiness we can get out of this life, or an urge to look even beyond this world for joy. Yet this search for joy beyond the bounds of the world is dangerous, for it is putting trust in what we cannot see.
And yet, whether we believe there is something beyond this physical world or not, we still have an idea of a world better than our own, even if we cannot imagine it.
It is this tenacious idea of a better world, I think, that prevents us from imagining heaven. Sure we’ve got our hell. It’s got cruel leaders, cries of mourning, and a constant vapour of despair. Oh yes, we’re quite comfortable when it comes to Hell. In fact, it looks a lot like earth sometimes. But we have problems with heaven. We mature Christians dismiss clouds and harps. But I think every one of us is secretly disappointed by any description of heaven. We enjoy Dante’s Inferno but frankly find his Paradisio rather dull. We aren’t happy with heaven being pinned down. Our longing is so acute that we won’t allow our desire to be satiated by a description. We can only imagine a heaven that we can’t imagine.
I understand why we settle, why we are too easily pleased with pursuit of sensual pleasures. All we see is the world, this pale world of inns and park benches. We try again and again to attain permanent contentment, but our longing is never fulfilled.
This leads to two responses: settling for what happiness we can get out of this life, or an urge to look even beyond this world for joy. Yet this search for joy beyond the bounds of the world is dangerous, for it is putting trust in what we cannot see.
And yet, whether we believe there is something beyond this physical world or not, we still have an idea of a world better than our own, even if we cannot imagine it.
It is this tenacious idea of a better world, I think, that prevents us from imagining heaven. Sure we’ve got our hell. It’s got cruel leaders, cries of mourning, and a constant vapour of despair. Oh yes, we’re quite comfortable when it comes to Hell. In fact, it looks a lot like earth sometimes. But we have problems with heaven. We mature Christians dismiss clouds and harps. But I think every one of us is secretly disappointed by any description of heaven. We enjoy Dante’s Inferno but frankly find his Paradisio rather dull. We aren’t happy with heaven being pinned down. Our longing is so acute that we won’t allow our desire to be satiated by a description. We can only imagine a heaven that we can’t imagine.
Right to Happiness
In Lewis’s exploration of whether we have a right to happiness, I found his exploration of what a right was most interesting, and most damaging to Clare’s concept of a “right to happiness”.
Lewis made the important point that we do not have a right to what we want. We do not have a right because we are limited. We do not have a right to be tall, we do not have a right to fly, we do not have a right to become a bicycle. We do not have these rights because we do not have the ability to do these things.
And there, of course, lies the crux of the matter. We are not originators. We cannot give somebody, or ourselves, anything. We cannot give rights, we can only pass them on. If we decide to pass on a right, a freedom, say the use of our barbecue, to somebody else, we only give them that right by obligating ourselves to allow somebody to use our barbecue. If we pass on rights and freedoms to others, we also bind ourselves to uphold that person’s right to barbecue. Otherwise it is not a right, a freedom to barbecue, at all.
So rights are freedoms that are granted to us. As Lewis says, the government grants us the ability to drive on roads, albeit because it is us who pay for them. But so it is on a more cosmic scale. God allows us life, He allows us freedom to love, to be happy. Yet we would be incredibly selfish to think that we deserve these freedoms. And God, because he gives rights, he also makes conditions for them. For example, our freedom to live how we please is constrained by the physical world (jumping from a tall building will bring quick termination to this freedom). I think, then, the problem with Clare’s “right to happiness is that he believes he deserves it, and as he deserves happiness, he may use any means to claim ownership.
But that would be like my friend using my barbecue as a fish habitat in his koi pond. I would not appreciate that, and probably revoke his rights, because I know what is best for the barbecue, for my friend, and for the koi. His rights are limited because he is not the creator, and does not know the proper order of things.
Lewis made the important point that we do not have a right to what we want. We do not have a right because we are limited. We do not have a right to be tall, we do not have a right to fly, we do not have a right to become a bicycle. We do not have these rights because we do not have the ability to do these things.
And there, of course, lies the crux of the matter. We are not originators. We cannot give somebody, or ourselves, anything. We cannot give rights, we can only pass them on. If we decide to pass on a right, a freedom, say the use of our barbecue, to somebody else, we only give them that right by obligating ourselves to allow somebody to use our barbecue. If we pass on rights and freedoms to others, we also bind ourselves to uphold that person’s right to barbecue. Otherwise it is not a right, a freedom to barbecue, at all.
So rights are freedoms that are granted to us. As Lewis says, the government grants us the ability to drive on roads, albeit because it is us who pay for them. But so it is on a more cosmic scale. God allows us life, He allows us freedom to love, to be happy. Yet we would be incredibly selfish to think that we deserve these freedoms. And God, because he gives rights, he also makes conditions for them. For example, our freedom to live how we please is constrained by the physical world (jumping from a tall building will bring quick termination to this freedom). I think, then, the problem with Clare’s “right to happiness is that he believes he deserves it, and as he deserves happiness, he may use any means to claim ownership.
But that would be like my friend using my barbecue as a fish habitat in his koi pond. I would not appreciate that, and probably revoke his rights, because I know what is best for the barbecue, for my friend, and for the koi. His rights are limited because he is not the creator, and does not know the proper order of things.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Bulverism
Today’s instalment of Bulverism further informs the idea of looking at and looking along. The two ways of looking are enmeshed so tightly that I see humility as the only way to reconcile these experiences. Because the way we look at one another is formed entirely by the tack that we look along.
Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The First Circle features a number of intellectuals in a prison camp of Stalinist Russia. Each zek is in prison because of fabricated charges of anti-government tendencies. Stripped of their freedom, the zeks generally share the western attitude of disgust at Communism, each of them facing 10-20 years under the corrupt system. When I began this book, I was quite comfortable with Solzhenitsyn’s vivid account of the regime’s corruptions which confirming to me, as a westerner, that communism was a doomed system. But I became uncomfortable at the discussions that the zeks would have. Despite having their lives torn apart by a communist system, the zeks are able to carry on discussions of the pros and cons of communism. They are able to lay aside their own personal grievances and have an intelligent discussion about communism’s effects on a larger scale.
There is a possibility that by discounting your own personal experience as objectively true, you lose any conviction, and in the spirit of obsequious benevolence, validate everyone’s opinion, insisting that they could easily be right. This could even be taken to a post-modern extreme, where what is real is defined by the individual. But this relativism is dangerous because it is a masquerade. We can claim we are respecting someone’s view point by saying it is valid “for them”. But this is not a compassionate gesture but one of selfishness.
Saying that whatever one believes is right shows a profound disregard for others. It shows that we are not willing to even bother setting that person aright. Instead we are pushing them away, unwilling to challenge, or be challenged by, another’s view.
This individual isolation that relativism leads to is not what C.S. Lewis had in mind when he cautions against discounting other’s opinions. Rather, it leads to an intellectual grappling. What C.S. Lewis was talking about was the intense, late night political arguments that went on in a Russian prison camp in 1945. When opposite opinions meet, instead of mentally disqualifying their rival, they ought go at it tooth and nail.
Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The First Circle features a number of intellectuals in a prison camp of Stalinist Russia. Each zek is in prison because of fabricated charges of anti-government tendencies. Stripped of their freedom, the zeks generally share the western attitude of disgust at Communism, each of them facing 10-20 years under the corrupt system. When I began this book, I was quite comfortable with Solzhenitsyn’s vivid account of the regime’s corruptions which confirming to me, as a westerner, that communism was a doomed system. But I became uncomfortable at the discussions that the zeks would have. Despite having their lives torn apart by a communist system, the zeks are able to carry on discussions of the pros and cons of communism. They are able to lay aside their own personal grievances and have an intelligent discussion about communism’s effects on a larger scale.
There is a possibility that by discounting your own personal experience as objectively true, you lose any conviction, and in the spirit of obsequious benevolence, validate everyone’s opinion, insisting that they could easily be right. This could even be taken to a post-modern extreme, where what is real is defined by the individual. But this relativism is dangerous because it is a masquerade. We can claim we are respecting someone’s view point by saying it is valid “for them”. But this is not a compassionate gesture but one of selfishness.
Saying that whatever one believes is right shows a profound disregard for others. It shows that we are not willing to even bother setting that person aright. Instead we are pushing them away, unwilling to challenge, or be challenged by, another’s view.
This individual isolation that relativism leads to is not what C.S. Lewis had in mind when he cautions against discounting other’s opinions. Rather, it leads to an intellectual grappling. What C.S. Lewis was talking about was the intense, late night political arguments that went on in a Russian prison camp in 1945. When opposite opinions meet, instead of mentally disqualifying their rival, they ought go at it tooth and nail.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Meditations in a Toolshed
I found today’s reading to be a great introduction not only to understanding C. S. Lewis, but the world in general. Today’s meditation spoke of the vastly different observation one get from looking at and looking along. Lewis emphasized that just because one stands outside events doesn’t mean one has a more complete picture.
This is especially poignant for me because I just finished a world literature class. I found myself dismissing works of literature from other cultures, from centuries past, because I didn’t understand them. My professor, when reviewing what we had read in class, helped me to see the cultural context of the author. Along with using the context to explain the text, my professor used it to show my class that we really couldn’t understand texts like the Bhagavad Gita unless we had been born in India six millennia ago.
The knowledge of the limit our perspective, properly understood, should give us a sublime humility. This knowledge frees us from always having to have the right answers. It communicates to others a vulnerability: a willing and eager ability to learn that breaks through barriers of opinion.
But of course, being humble doesn’t mean we need to be spineless. C.S. Lewis does not insist on only accepting the experiential “looking along” as valid knowledge, but insists that we must also look at. We are not dry tumbleweeds, drifting wherever the winds of opinion take us, but rather young shoots, grounded in conviction, but bending our course towards the brightest light of truth.
This is especially poignant for me because I just finished a world literature class. I found myself dismissing works of literature from other cultures, from centuries past, because I didn’t understand them. My professor, when reviewing what we had read in class, helped me to see the cultural context of the author. Along with using the context to explain the text, my professor used it to show my class that we really couldn’t understand texts like the Bhagavad Gita unless we had been born in India six millennia ago.
The knowledge of the limit our perspective, properly understood, should give us a sublime humility. This knowledge frees us from always having to have the right answers. It communicates to others a vulnerability: a willing and eager ability to learn that breaks through barriers of opinion.
But of course, being humble doesn’t mean we need to be spineless. C.S. Lewis does not insist on only accepting the experiential “looking along” as valid knowledge, but insists that we must also look at. We are not dry tumbleweeds, drifting wherever the winds of opinion take us, but rather young shoots, grounded in conviction, but bending our course towards the brightest light of truth.
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