Myself and two of my good friends went on a fishing trip where we ate what we caught.  We had an inextricable connection to our food. While we talked and enjoyed our company, we put a worm on the hook, cast the rod, reeled in the fish, removed the hook and the fish’s head, then cleaned, gutted, and removed its scales.

Basket with Loaves and Two Fishes, mosaic from a 5th century church

At the end of the day we grilled our catch along with spices and fruit and many other tasty provisions, making a lavish meal out of our day’s work. And then, only then, could we feast. This took time and energy (we used the whole day) to create, and we enjoyed the abundant setting.

Contrast this experience with going through a fast food drive-thru window. You talk to a menu, a disembodied version of a person whose only relationship to you is economical.  You order a number. You give your new friend some money and receive a bag with more bags and boxes in it.  You don’t know where this food has come from, the people preparing it don’t even know where it came from. The food inside your box inside your bag bears little resemblance to anything you might have seen in the real world. You consume the food as quickly as possible (sometimes without even looking at it) and you don’t even need to leave your car to do so. The eating experience is trying as hard as possible to erase itself.

In this process we are attempting to live as much outside of the world as possible. There is little affirmation of our place in the physical world through the lens of a drive-thru experience.  It plays down our earthiness at the expense of time and pleasure.  The more we see our food as abstract from this world, the easier it is for us to see that in ourselves.  We are gnostic eaters.

Wendell Berry gets it right in his anthology of essays, What Are People For? in saying the modern experience of eating is more like feeding than feasting, and this makes it easier for us to lose the connection to our place in this world.

Some of this might sound absurd: we’re lamenting the ease of our existence? But what we’re really lamenting is not embracing our existence.  It’s not the ease so much as it is the forgetting. We forget that we are physical creatures, dependent on the land and therefore, the Lord, to supply our needs.  We like to forget this because it gives an air of autonomy, thin slice it may be.

Now we won’t always have time to spend an entire day on a meal, and I’m not saying that fast food is intrinsically morally evil, but we should be seeking lives that lead to less material consumption and more proper, meaningful consumption. The kind that emphasizes our connection to this world and doesn’t seek to remove us from it. This affirms how God made us. We need to feed less and feast more.

Sometimes this way of life is a shirt I try on and choose to wear, while other times it feels more like a uniform handed out, like a mechanic’s jumpsuit, protecting myself from the dirt and oil and grime that I would otherwise pick up.

This uniform can be made up of academic requirements, of hours upon hours of reading or of papers that don’t seem to be much more than mere busy work.  Now I shouldn’t fault the seminary or faculty, after all, it is a graduate school and academics should be rigorous.  The seminary I attend, though not perfect, is definitely good.  But instead of being made of something, maybe this uniform is made of a nothingness, a void that feels just as substantial as its physical counterparts.

Lest this be another bitter diatribe against “the system” I need to face the fact that I am more than willing to accept this uniform, and more than that, I choose my own clothes to wear that help me avoid the messiness that real life offers.

In confronting the groans of creation, I retreat and choose to put on a Hazmat suit. I am oblivious to the cries of this world and refuse to struggle and toil amidst Adam’s thorns and thistles. This refusal to fight has an air of faux spirituality: how can studying the Bible be a bad thing? Getting good grades is always good, right? At least temporarily, this mystical facade allows me to avoid the curse put upon Adam and all men after him.  I will not sweat, I will not eat in pain. Though I know I’m not really undoing anything, there’s still a familiar feeling of false comfort to be found.

So as the storm is now dying down, I realize how fleeting our experiences really are.  And I feel the pressure of actually living life versus living something lesser.  There may be pain and chaos outside of my control and it may never truly be “easy”, but I cannot deny the desire inside to characterize my existence over a something instead of a nothing. This desire won’t always offer me pleasure, and I will probably curse it for its impression of betrayal.  But I’ve found that there is meaning to be discovered in things other than pleasure, though they be painful and undesirable. And the more I come to this realization that life is a messy mixture, the more I refuse that uniform, the more I deny myself those clothes that comfort me at the expense of finding true comfort. Maybe this is the “putting on of the new self” Paul talked so much about.

McCarthy’s book, The Road (which was made into a film in fall of 2009), is a disturbing look into a bleak future, one where seemingly no hope survives. The reader is introduced to a father and his 10ish year old son who are struggling daily to find food and warmth amidst a desolate land, all while trying to steer clear of the many dangers of this stark new world.

McCarthy is a master of the novel. If bleak could be beautiful, his terse descriptions of a gray world come close. His style also proves that poetic lines need not be over indulgent or flowery. There is no sentimentality presented, just the cold reality of the nothingness our characters find themselves in.

But in the midst of these dire circumstances and disconcerting images, we are presented with a man sacrificing himself for his son over and over. He wasn’t perfect, he surely made mistakes, but when he made a mistake he apologized gently, because he loved his son very much—much more than anything else in the world including himself.

In reading this story, my desire for a father (or the Father) intensified. In many ways my father was the opposite of the man in The Road, often sacrificing me for himself. I definitely do not want to give my children the same flawed fatherhood I received. And it is in my longing for something more than my earthly father, acknowledging the hurt and pain that he wrought, that I find the sorrow that leads me to my God. It would be easy to give up and ignore the longing, but it is a real work of grace and courage to follow that hurt to something more.

McCarthy’s disturbing images of a hopeless future point us to the grim reality that in our current world, though seemingly comfortable on the outside (especially for us Westerners), there is a lurking darkness and violence just beneath the surface. We need fathers to help us traverse this darkness. And this points to the Father who gives us the grace to do so.

The man in our story is a welcome contrast to most fathers portrayed in television, especially comedies. The typical TV Dad is a Homer Simpson: dull and withdrawn. Though funny in a comedy, it is tragic in real life. The sad reason these father characters work so well is that they are true to life.

We all have an image of God presented in our fathers and some of us have a more accurate description than others. But none have a perfect portrait, we are all flawed. McCarthy forces us to reconcile and struggle with these similarities and differences.

Though my father has failed me in many ways, and I know I am deeply flawed myself, there is still hope. Through the power of Jesus’ work on the cross, my wounds are not my own. Through the power of Christ’s resurrection, there is hope for new life, there is a possibility for me to know the love of a Father, and to give that love as a father one day. This is the unnamed hope that propels a story like The Road. It is one that touches the essence of every human being.

Near the end of the story, there’s a woman who tells the boy that “the breath of God was his [father’s] breath.” And so it is, for better or worse. And with the grace that God gives, it won’t be perfect, but it can be for the better.

But doing something like this brings up at least one question: why set old words to new music? There might be a tendency to think that coming up with new music somehow tramples on tradition, or is somewhat arrogant in its approach. Surely this happens, but I don’t think this necessarily must be the case.

There are a bunch of reasons to do something like this, but there’s one main idea I’d like to present. God’s truth is always true, be it the year 2010 or 1813. He is everlasting and eternal and immutable–He doesn’t change. We, however, do change. A Christian in the 1st century would worship very differently than one in the 19th century, or our century (think of Chris Tomlin in the 1st century…weird right?). Setting old words to new music attempts to combine these two ideas in one song. The redemption that we find in God is always new, always fresh, and is simultaneously the same. That’s weird to think about, but it’s true. God’s grace is unchanging, but it is applied in different ways. In adopting these hymns with a modern mindset we are saying that God is acting in our present time, while honoring our roots in historic Christianity (though the 19th century isn’t that deep of a root, it’s still a root nonetheless).

And it’s not like we are the first generation to steal, er…appropriate other music or lyrics, many hymns come from some place else, and those other places aren’t always the church. But that’s for a different post.

I came across the text combing through Spurgeon’s compilation of hymns for his church, Our Own Hymn Book, of which the full text is available on Google Books. And here’s a brief bio on John Marriott with lyrics to Thou Whose Almighty Word.

So maybe there’s something to think about. You’ll find a rough version of the new song below with the complete lyrics:

[See post to listen to audio]
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Here are the lyrics:
Verse 1:
Thou, whose almighty word
Chaos and darkness heard
And took their flight
Hear us, we humbly pray
And where the gospel’s day
Sheds not its glorious ray
Let there be light

Verse 2:
Thou, who didst come to bring
On Thy protecting wing
Healing and sight
Sight to the inly blind
Health to the sick in mind
Oh! now, to all mankind
Let there be light

Chorus:
Your light come down
In it we’re found
You heal our hearts
Each crooked part

Verse 3:
Spirit of truth and love
Life-giving holy Dove
Speed forth Thy flight
Move o’er the water’s face
By Thine almighty grace
And in earth’s darkest place
Let there be light

Verse 4:
Blessed and holy Three
Glorious Trinity
Wisdom, love, might
Boundless as ocean’s tide
Rolling in fullest pride
O’er the world far and wide
Let there be light

In this film there is a striking celebration of humanity.  Much like WALL-E or District 9, The Fantastic Mr. Fox uses some very non-human characters (foxes, badgers, rabbits, etc.) to teach us what humanity ought to be.  More than a few times the characters tell themselves, and each other, that they are “wild animals.”

One of the conflicts in the film concerns Mr. Fox himself. He left the “wild animal life” and has become a writer, but still yearns to be undomesticated—stealing ducks, turkeys and apple cider. Mr. Fox puts himself and his family in danger because of this rekindled animal nature. The conflict heads to a point and leads to a confrontational conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Fox.  He tells his wife he is a wild animal and can’t help what he does.  She responds with, “But you’re also a husband and a father.”

You see, we are all wild animals.  When we use our wildness for our own selfish individual gain, we get into problems like our Mr. Fox.  Even if we are successful in our particular area of wildness, there’s still something not quite right, something is missing or lost.  But the answer to this dilemma is not to dismiss or repress our wild natures (which is a big temptation), but to properly apply them: to be a wild animal and a husband and a father.

Eventually, Mr. Fox embraces this wildness, not for individualistic ends, but for his family and his community.  When he uses this desire for others as well as himself, things start changing around.  This becomes most clear when Fox encounters the wolf towards the end of the film.  The wolf is a symbol of true wildness, of its essence.  This meeting conveys that Fox has finally  become the truly wild animal he thought he always was.  He’s no longer afraid of the wolf, but is in a state of awe and wonder.

Similarly, God has called us to be wild animals.  Not individualistic, but communal wild animals.

Our wildness, properly applied, is a powerful thing.  The film teaches us that this desire brings together families, overcomes obstacles and when a community of wild animals come together, they can save the day.

Sadly, probably a majority of Christians don’t even know what their wild animal might look like.  We are mundane people with mundane lives and mundane dreams.  The Fantastic Mr. Fox tells us to not be OK with that.

In many ways, we have forgotten how to dream.  We’ve forgotten the thrill of the hunt.  Maybe we’ve tried to recreate the thrill on our own selfish terms, or maybe don’t think it could be a part of our present lives, or maybe we’ve never experienced it in the first place.  Part of the reason we need people and stories and art in our lives is to stir up those long-lost memories inside of us.  This is what it means to be truly human.  God has created humanity to be a grand, beautiful thing: to know Him and be a part of His plan of redemption.  We don’t often think we are part of this plot and effectively write ourselves out of the story, settling for something less than human.  The Fantastic Mr. Fox tells us to not be OK with that.

I wanted to teach on worship by using as many art forms as I could: dance, painting, installation, music, etc. I also wanted to use as many instances of contemporary art as possible, hopefully creating an awareness of contemporary art that I think the church, in general, has lost (much to the detriment of the church’s mission, not to mention richness in devotional or everyday life, but that’s another topic).
Some of the artists whose work I used as metaphors and parables: John Tavener, James Turell, Soweto Gospel Choir, Bill Monroe, Makoto Fujimura, Georges Rouault, John Cage, Philip Glass, Wendell Berry, Gregory King, Mark Rothko, Lauren Shea Little, J.S. Bach, Thomas Tallis, James MacMillan, Olivier Messiaen, and some of my stuff. For a full list of the artists and their work, see the art referenced page.

The class attempted to follow a certain order: starting with God, talking about the Trinity, God’s transcendence and immanence. Immanence led to a week on creation, which led to speaking about humanity. Because we can’t understand humanity apart from God, that led us to the topic of the Incarnation, which lends itself to the cross. From there, we talked about the resurrection’s meaning on the Christian life: sanctification. We then took a step back to consider our context: our tradition, our church history, the importance of creeds and confessions, as well as looking at how to interact with those around us now. We ended the class with a discussion on eschatology, the in-breaking of the future into our present.

I’ve made available my notes, slides, reading list, and art referenced. It’s broken down week by week, or you can download it all in one shot. For those of you who care to look at it, I hope it’s helpful!

[See post to listen to audio]

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I saw the text focus on three areas of God’s greatness, His love, His fatherhood, and His plan of redemption.

I feel that Malachi is so very relevant to us today because of his style: he is attempting to shock his audience out of their apathetic stupor. The original audience needed a shock and so do we. We can easily assume God’s blessings and act like grown up spoiled kids when things don’t go our way. Unlike the shock-jocks that used to be so popular on the radio (maybe when radio was more popular), Malachi’s outrageous statements are not to be an end in themselves; there is a point to it all: to bring us back to hope. As I say in the sermon, he holds a gun to our heads, not to kill us, but to bring us to life.

The problem with us worshiping God is that we can’t actually do it. By the mere fact of God being God, we will never measure up to the standards that are present. Which is why we need One to lead us in true worship. We are in need of Someone to show us how and to enable us to worship.

Here’s the audio:
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Jeff

The other day I met Jeff. He lives in my neighborhood, is retired from the army and owns his own lawncare/landscaping business. I found out he knew I went to seminary when he said,

“So you go to seminary, huh?”

“Yeah, I go to Reformed Theological Seminary just up the street.”

His response (”praise God”) I took as secret code for, “Hey, I’m a Christian, too. Cool.”

He asked what I wanted to do when I was done with school.

“I would love to work for a church…” etc. etc.

I asked him if he goes to a church nearby.

“No, haven’t been to church in a while”

“Yeah, the church has burned lots of people.” (I didn’t realize until now that could be taken more than one way.)

Jeff: “I just have some weird views of church.”

And then he said it: “But I know Jesus Christ as my personal Savior.”

He went on to repeat that he had some “interesting” views on church, then continued,

“I just try and be a better man each day than I have before. Some days that doesn’t work out, but most days I do pretty well with that.”

I wanted to ask him more about that comment, but I was running late for participating in a chapel service, and he had work to do, so I ended the conversation with, “I’d love to talk to you about that sometime.” He seemed genuinely interested. Maybe we will.

John and Kim

That conversation reminded me of John and Kim, two friends who started up a coffee house. They hadn’t been to church in some time, I got the feeling they had some bad experiences. They definitely had some funky biblical views and their son, whom they were worried about, was kind of off doing his own thing. They would ask me, an early twenty-something first year seminary student, what to do to help their son. They would often say the phrase that I know I’ve heard many times before, “We don’t go to church, but we know Jesus Christ as our personal Savior.”

Pros and Cons

I believe this summation of the gospel has been very beneficial, but is not without its harmful results, of which I’m sure were not originally intended.

“I know Jesus Christ as my personal Savior.”

It is a bold statement, there is no question of the affiliation with God.

“I know…”

It also says something about this God: he can be known, and man can know him and (maybe by induction) He knows me.

“…Jesus Christ…”

Even more than a bold statement about a vague God, it specifically identifies Jesus Christ, something even some churches are reticent to do.

“…as my personal Savior.”

There is an identification and a relationship being communicated- also, no other mediator other than Jesus is being mentioned. It is obviously a personal faith. And saying “savior” means you are saved from something, so there’s seems an inherent theology of hell.

That said, this snippet is also very harmful to the gospel, and here’s why I think that:

Ultimately and by itself, this statement makes Christianity’s validation experiential: I know, personal savior. The justification is only subjective, and not just subjective, but individualistically subjective. Especially given the equal relevance for all religions/worldviews in our current society, this can be harmful. (I’m thinking of the typical “That’s great for you, but not for me” routine.)

This statement also makes redemption seem like it’s all about us. God’s redemption does include us, but is so much bigger than just us. God’s plan of redemption has in mind the entire world, us included.

Maybe my biggest beef with this statement is there is no community aspect: I can have Jesus and do whatever I want. It’s typical American individualistic fare. Yes, our faith is a personal faith, but it is most definitely not just a personal faith. The Christian’s life is one that must be lived with others. Without going into too much theology (look here and here instead), the existence of the Trinity is a constant call to community. An individualistic Christianity is one that does not affirm the Trinity.

One other assumption inherent in this statement goes back to the first point. My assurance and sanctification is based solely on how I feel. Should I got to church or not? Doesn’t matter, Jesus is my Savior. Should I study my Bible or not? Doesn’t matter, Jesus is my Savior. How should I live? Really, it doesn’t matter, Jesus is my Savior.

There is such a flattening of the gospel, it almost makes life on earth something meaningless in itself, or at least the only purpose is to get to a point where you can recite the sinner’s prayer.

Often in statements like these, there’s no room for taking up the cross and dying to oneself. All the inconvenient parts of being a Christian get wiped away. Of course, probably any small sentence that attempts to say what the gospel is will always come short, and that’s one benefit of conversation and social interaction. Small sentences like these, though helpful at times, can be damaging to such a glorious plan of redemption.

First off, we should not expect to be able to define and understand and categorize everything about God. If he is God, then there will be aspects of him that are above us. If we could completely understand him, he would not be God, he would be something lesser. There is a grace in ignorance. But just because parts of God are unsearchable doesn’t mean we throw our hands up in the air and give up: though He is transcendent, He is knowable. There are parts of Himself that God has given us the grace of knowledge, the faculty of knowing. Too easily we fall into one side or the other: God is knowable but not completely knowable.

With that said we attempt to look at the Trinity. Because our own experience does not come close to the truths that are found within the Godhead, we resort to analogies. And though analogies always break down, some are more helpful than others. The analogies we most often use are physical or sight based: the Trinity is like 3 states of matter: water, ice, vapor or the Trinity is like an egg: yolk, shell, the white stuff (whatever that’s called). There are many more out there, I’m sure. The problem with physical analogies is that only one thing can occupy one space at one point in time. If a pen is on the table, 2 more pens cannot be in the same exact place at the same exact time. Yet thinking about the Trinity requires more than one thing to occupy the space.

This is where using our ears can be more helpful than using our eyes. For a sound environment, multiple sounds can occupy the same space simultaneously. If 3 violins are playing, one can hear all three violins at the same time, and they take up the same space of sound. Going further, one can focus on the overall sound and understand the one-ness, or one can listen for the individual parts and understand the three-ness. And this happens in the same space and the same time. The apparent paradox presented in the physical world makes more sense when looked at in the aural world.
By the way, this was a corporate collaboration on the Sunday of a capella hymns.

Two great examples of the one and many come from John Tavener and Thomas Tallis. These are both choral works. Tavener, who is still alive and composing, is influenced highly by his Eastern Orthodox faith, and puts a high priority (at least musically) on the purity of one-ness. Here’s one of his most famous pieces, The Lamb.

Tallis, on the other hand, was a medieval composer, and embraced polyphony: he liked the idea of the many. Here’s one of his more famous pieces, Spem in Alium.

Between listening to both of these pieces, we get an idea of how the Trinity can be one and many at the same time.