As something of a C.S. Lewis acolyte, I admit that I get unduly excited (some would say) when I notice visitors to this blog who hail from England. In recent days, visitors from London, Sheffield and Oxford have trickled in. I get excited over these Brits, and especially the one who checks this blog from…
Oxford.
Since I’ve cultivated a lingering ambition to attend Oxford, the locale does a lot for morale. I like to pretend that Ravi Zacharias has stopped by and is checking in. At any rate, this Oxford reader is clearly a brilliant and discerning person with excellent taste in blogs.
All you Brits are very welcome. And feel free to invite your friends.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
British BitterSweetLife Readers
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
The Soul as a City: Ruins or Reconstruction?
Earlier this year I had a picture of the soul as a ruined city, a city that God rebuilds. My theological metaphor ran like this:
Our souls lie in ruins, vulnerable to any and every enemy. Then Christ comes along and brings restoration. Nehemiah-like, he starts to rebuild the walls. Suddenly, resistance is an option.
We discover that we can fight against sin successfully, that we can defy our darker impulses. There is a means of defense. The circle of our “free will” is expanded to include something besides failure. Jesus rebuilds the ruins, brick by brick, and sets his Spirit to patrol the walls. Then he hands us the key, and says, “Be alert.”
The power of defense is all Christ’s. But the responsibility to keep the walls from being breached still lies with us.
I was fairly happy with the analogy. But more recently I developed a variant on the picture.
I’m standing inside my own soul, and it’s not what you’d call a construction site. Things are coming down, not going up. I jump to one side to avoid a wall that comes crashing down, only to narrowly evade death at the prongs of a falling chandelier. The air is thick with drywall dust and plaster crunches underfoot. While the destruction is magnificent, I’ve got to wonder what will be left when all of this is over.
I’ve asked a similar question before. After all the so-called ‘work’ put in on my soul, will the final job be restoration or demolition? Seems like so much still ‘has to go’ that God may need to raze everything to the ground and get a clean start.
If that’s really necessary, what would be left? If the soul is a house, and you demolish it, what happens to things like personality? Maybe you retain the charm of an old, English hillside where a castle once stood. An aura of strength and adventure seeps out of the grass, where the remains of towering walls can be seen if you look closely. That ruined fortress could be my soul, after every seamy vein has been worked out of the rock.
Or not.
My love for the dramatic sometimes gets the better of me. The picture I find in the Bible is one of gradual, steady change—maybe not much, but change, nonetheless. And for the better. That means that God is at work in my life in subtle ways, and that he may be more aware of the progress than I am. I suppose this really is true. I just think, “God, I’m not giving you much to work with. Where are the materials coming from?”
I realize the pointlessness of the question as soon as I ask it.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Reading for Sanity
Reaching the Dalgliesh Point
It happens every semester. I enter a phase of endgame desperation and begin to read—frivolously and irresponsibly. (In the past, I’ve labeled this extremity the “Dalgliesh Point,” tipping my hat to the P.D. James mysteries that typically keep me sane.) Theoretically, this rabid course of action should sound the death knell for my final exams. But things are not always as they seem. In reality, it gives me the mental wherewithal to cram my finals down.
I’m not sure what possessed me, but in the last several days I traversed rapidly through The Land That Time Forgot by Edgar Rice Burroughs. What can I say about Burroughs? He won’t make the Master Book List, but he does have a knack for the fantastic. I guess his work could be classified as Victorian pulp fiction. I place Burroughs in the same psychological realm as Frank Baum and Lewis Carroll, all of whom must have spent their waking hours in prolonged daydreams.
In Burrough’s case (as anyone who’s read Tarzan can say), the daydreams are filled with exotic environs and “savage” women. This could rightly be called unabashed escapism, so I guess it’s appropriate that I’m reading it during my finals week. However, with literature of this sort, “a spoonful weighs a ton”—which is to say I’m probably set for at least ten years.
This morning I took the meds to soothe my aching back, drank the coffee to stir my tired mind, sipped the water to fill my dehydrated veins, and headed off to slam up my Theology 2 exam. What happened next was an information dump. I unloaded everything in my mind, emptying even the hallway closets. My pieces of notepaper got so weighed down with theology that they curled up like hard tacos as I wrote. The information is laid on so thick my professor will have to grade it with a spatula.
Now that I’m back home, and before cramming begins for my History of Christianity exam, I’ve opened P.D. James’s A Certain Justice starring Adam Dalgliesh. In the initial excitement, 1.5 chapters have been devoured, and—as countless previous experiences have taught me—the darkly intricate world of P.D. James is the perfect antidote to Finals.
As I type, Burrough’s dinosaurs and jungle princesses are receding and present-day London is taking on focus. I already feel better. Now, in truth, the Dalgliesh Point has been reached.
Changing the World from Within
I’m not convinced that the world ever changes much. That’s not to say that a piece of helpful legislation never gets passed, or that corrupt regimes never get upended. As history has shown us, they sometimes do—but anarchic people and oppressive governments are something we don’t escape. The world, you see, doesn’t change much.
Nevertheless, something changes about the world. Our relationship to this earth is in a state of flux. Reality is a picture with an increasing pixel count. Existence gains high resolution. Realism becomes a way of life, and it is brighter, not darker, than what previously passed for perception.
I almost hate to say what I’m about to say because it will sound dangerously like designer spirituality—the stuff which aims for sentimentality without actuality. Only the fact that I have Paul (who wrote about “seeing through a glass dimly”) in my corner, as well as Jesus (the self-proclaimed “light of the world”), gives me the nerve to push on.
The world doesn’t change much. And, while I know (and aggressively assert) that we grow some, I’m not convinced that people change drastically either. (Note my emphasis on “drastically.”) But something about us changes. There is this thing called variously “getting mature” or “gaining experience” or “finding wisdom.” So what gives?
I like to think of the subtle “change” I experience as sleep gradually giving way to consciousness—and not the drugged, irritable wakefulness that follows a too-short nap, but the kind that caps a long, refreshing dream. This is a sleep that gives way to a dawn of unexpected promise.
Anatomically speaking, for me this is not always the case. In my sleep, my body stealthily moves into contorted positions which were comfortable in my earlier life but that now spell disaster for my vertebrae. I wake up to pinched nerves and the realization that, during the dark hours, I can’t monitor my own health. I can’t even see myself to know what I am doing.
I can draw a parallel between my physical sleeping patterns and my spiritual development: maybe I will reach the point where I will stop hurting myself in my sleep. Will I gain new self-awareness? Will my spiritual stupor give way to a magical sunrise? Or perhaps, will one accompany the other?
I know that I “change” in this way, at least: Heaven’s light seeps through my eyelids and the world gradually takes on shape. The light gives life. I see my personalized addictions without the dubious benefit of obscuring shadow. I know where in the room they stand, and where I do. I no longer stub my toes.
I see that the world is broken, and I am too—but things are fresher, and more truth nevertheless: I see Christ through the cracks. I need him badly: Apparently I will be a child all my life.
The world hasn’t changed, but I see it more clearly. In a sense, then, I have changed too, because Christ has given me new eyes, and they are blinking. They are guessing at earth’s eternal shadows. In the end they will be fully open.
::
Things I did not say:
It’s not worth reading the news.
Voting is unimportant.
Who needs social justice?
People are hopelessly evil.
Don’t bother trying to grow more mature.
I have all this figured out.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Fighting Final Exams
Finals Week has arrived.
I’m currently battling it out with a formidable set of notes from Theology 2 for my exam tomorrow. Due to a variety of circumstances of last week, most of which involved Aidan, I wasn’t able to get started on my test prep until this morning. I know the exam will cover one of two topics:
Four Views of the AtonementorJustification by Grace through Faith
It’s a good thing these two topics are so clear cut and readily digestible. Actually, they are—and this fact should provoke gratitude, since Christianity does not posit arcane, supremely obscure doctrines at the center of faith. Paradox, yes. Mystery, even—yes! But no flat contradictions, no esoteric abracadabra.
I wish I could say the same thing about my notes.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Aidan Speaks On Mother's Day
It’s not always easy to find a good time to talk with Aidan, because of his busy schedule. Fortunately, when you are lucky enough to catch him in a quiet moment, he usually speaks his mind.
My moment came last night when Aidan was lounging on the futon in his footed pajamas, sipping a decaf vanilla latte, and Lindsay and I had just breathed a big sigh of relief—wishing, at the same time, that we had footed pajamas too. I realized that now was as good a time as ever for an interview.
I shooed Lindsay out of the room, put in Aidan’s favorite Mozart CD, and began to ask questions.
“Hey Aidan, quick: What are some things you like about your Mom?”
At first, Aidan was reticent, as if he was unwilling to speak on the topic. I wondered why he seemed so quiet and bashful, but I quickly realized that it was the fear of sounding overly gushy and sentimental that made him hesitate to talk. I readily understood.
“Look,” I said, “If you get emotional and tear up or anything, I won’t publish that part of the interview. We both know how you feel about Mom.” Aidan looked at me carefully, to see if I was being sincere, and then agreed. The interview was on.
“Ok,” I said. “So what are some things you appreciate about Mom?”
“Well,” said Aidan. “Let me think. OK, I have one. I like how she appreciates my artwork.”
I sighed, because I’d had a feeling this would come up.
“What artwork, exactly?”
“Oh, you know, Dad.”
Indeed, I did know, but I persisted.
“Come on, just explain for the record.”
“Well, for example, my art of ‘being wakeful.’ I have put a great deal of time and energy into this. It is not easy to strike the perfect note between happy alertness and hyper-attentive despair. The genius, you know, is in the details. It’s all about how I whimper softly, and how I kick—not hard enough to wear myself out, but with just enough force to escape from the restraining blankets. I’ve always noticed that Mom pays close attention to my efforts in this field. She is very supportive. Much more than you are, actually.”
“This isn’t about me,” I reminded him. “What else?”
“Well, my Italian fountain imitation. Mom is always impressed by that.”
“She sure is.” Inwardly, I rolled my eyes.
“Also, Mom knows that an artist has more basic needs too. She arranges for my meals to be delivered, five or six times a day.”
“That’s right.”
“And she knows that I generally like to work while being held upright, bounced not shaken, in a sitting position. I’m very particular about that.”
“You sure are.”
“Mom is great.”
Just then, I heard the bedroom door open. Lindsay was coming back into the room! “No!” I said. “I’m not done with the interview yet!”
But it was too late. Lindsay was standing in the room, and Aidan had seen her. Overcome by emotion, he balled up his fists, kicked his feet, and burst into—Well, let’s just say he was deeply moved.
The interview had come to an end, but one thing, at least, was clear. Like small, temperamental artists everywhere, Aidan loves his mom.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Supremacy of Christ in a Postmodern World
Some of you may be interested in the Desiring God conference coming up September 29 - October 1. I definitely am. Keenly interested. The theme is Above All Earthly Powers: The Supremacy of Christ in a Postmodern World.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a collection of speakers this scintillating.
- David Wells?
- D.A. Carson?
- Timothy Keller?
- Mark Driscoll?
- Voddie Baucham?
- John Piper?
I'm not sure wild horses could drag me away from this conference.
A Sip in Time Saves Mind
I had reached that pre-finals point in the semester, the point where my blood type becomes Coffee by majority vote. It was unfortunate that I had also reached the pre-collapse point where my coffee bean supply reaches the bottom of the jar. There were just days, hours—cups, shots—left before I would have to venture into the outside world and procure more of the life-giving beans.
So the importance of our friend Rebekah’s visit at this juncture can hardly be exaggerated.
Rebekah came to talk and hold Aidan, and because of the goodness of her heart and the far-seeing vision of her soul, she brought gifts. To Lindsay, Rebekah gave a box of Godiva chocolates. And to me and Aidan? That’s right: an entire bag of Roasterie 40 Sardines, a smooth local product blended to perfection.
Aidan and I were almost beside ourselves. And we definitely do not believe in coincidences.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Obedience to Christ: An Impossible Climb
If you are at all given to adventure, at some point in your life you have probably experienced a certain type of horrifying thrill. Usually, it happens in Colorado or Arizona or Wyoming. At a bare minimum, gigantic boulders are required and massive rock faces are preferable. The moment of terror happens like this:
You are climbing the rock face, hand over hand, scratching for holds with your fingers. You find one little crevice and then another. You put a foot up, or a knee up, or even an elbow, and push. You contort your body into a rigid, straining mass centered upon a 2-inch indentation in the granite. You activate muscles in your forearms and the backs of your hands that before were just limp spaghetti.
It's all fun and games until you reach the point of no return and realize, abruptly, that there is also no going on. You are stuck on a cliff, trapped on a slab of vertical rock. Your fingers desperately fan across the stone over your head, and find nothing. Your calves begin to quiver, wedged into a marginal "ledge" - all that separates you from a plunging fall. A technical climb has become a rescue op.
The horrible realization dawns: I will have to stay here for the rest of my life.
::
Becoming obedient to Christ is a lot like this. Frighteningly so. We are climbing a cliff, and getting higher and higher above the ground. Then, just when we thought we were progressing, we find that we are standing still in rock dust. Our sweat begins to dry and muscles cramp. We are stuck in an awful state of static sin. What we always used to do, we are doing, and apparently we will continue doing it. Addiction has cornered us, and the only road out is vertical.
What happens next is a paradox. It appears that if we are going to escape, we will have to play the central role in our own rescue. There is no one else nearby. No one, that is, except the one who inspired us to begin the mad climb in the first place.
We were so wound up, what with the climbing shoes, the chalk bag, the Oakley "climbing" glasses - that we forgot that the God of the impossible also asks us to do impossible things. That's why we're on this wall. The wall is called Obedience to Christ, and to say it's hard to beat is the ultimate understatement. Obedience is an insurmountable obstacle.
Clinging there, shaking, to the wall, we suddenly remember the impossibility of our reaching the top. Then, if our eyes are not too red, we remember something else. Christ commands us to do this impossible thing, but he also lives in us and does the work for us. Remembering that we are not alone, we pray to God, we ask for help. And the next time we reeeaaach for a hold, our scuffed and tired fingers find a grip. Could it have been there all along? New strength fills our arms. Is it really just adrenalin?
::
I think the fundamental disconnect comes when we forget that the cliff is where we always live. Obedience is always a desperate situation. We are constantly living in a state of moral emergency from which only Christ can extricate us. And awful things begin to happen when we make out as if obedience is merely a hobby.
When we remember that life in Christ is lived out on a cliff face, then we habitually drink deep of Jesus, the "fountain of life." Obeying him is never easy. But we become addicted to Christ instead of our sin. And once we have drunk deep of the living fountain, we may rightly say, surveying the hot rock wall, that there is something in the water.
Inspired by a message from John Vanderhorst: "Obedience - Scaling the Cliff," 5.7.06
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Resident Alien
I am not a huge milk fan at this point in my life, but occasionally I like a swig, especially after eating something sweet—like cheesecake. So it was that yesterday, as I walked past the kitchen counter, I swiped Lindsay’s glass of milk and absconded with it into the relative safety of the bedroom.
Despite my expertise in these things, Lindsay noticed me making my escape. She followed me to retrieve her cherished drink and made the following remark:
“I know what you’re doing! You’re taking my milk so I’ll come in here, like the kid does in E.T. with the Reese’s Pieces!”
“Honey—that analogy is perfect.”
Sometimes you get a set-up that is just unbelievable.
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