“The nature of language…”

I’m reading Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book, in preparation for WBCL’s Digging Deeper on MidMorning this coming Thursday, September 10th, at 9:05 am.  This is one of the more challenging small books I’ve read recently.  For instance, what to make of this statement?

It is the very nature of language to form rather than inform.  When language is personal, which it is at its best, it reveals: and revelation is always formative–we don’t know more, we become more.  Our best users of language, poets and lovers and children and saints, use words to make–make intimacies, make character, make beauty, make goodness, make truth.  (page 24)

I’ve certainly experienced enough of the worst of language…the dryness of a text book, reciting facts in a way no one could ever read for pleasure or interest;  the convoluted prose of an instruction manual for assembling a bookshelf which only frustrates and confuses.  But what does it mean that language at its best is “personal”?    The dictionary definitions helps a bit. Personal can mean  “pertaining to or coming from a (particular) person, a self-conscious being.”   Good communication has an element of the personal–or perhaps conversational?– about it.

So far, so good.  But how does language make beauty or goodness or truth?  Making is different from revealing, isn’t it?  When something is revealed to me, I recognize its truth or beauty, perhaps for the first time.  Do the words make it true or beautiful, or only reveal something inherent?  I believe God is the source of beauty and truth, and I think Peterson does, too.  My biggest problem with the early chapters of this book is that he makes statements which are deep with implications, and then he does nothing to unpack them with illustration.

The rich metaphors of a good poem cause us to see in a new way.  For instance,

Earth’s crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

But only he who sees, takes off his shoes -

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

–Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh, Book vii

This snippet of verse is a powerful picture of our God-saturated world, and the necessity of looking at creation with awareness of God’s presence.  The idea of being so oblivious we’d sit and pluck berries when we should be worshiping carries a sense of shame.  So few words, so much depth.  But does the poet create the beauty or the truth?  Or does she reveal it by her fresh metaphor and strong verbs (crammed, afire, pluck)? The comparison of Moses at the burning bush to simpletons feeding their faces with fruit carries conviction which cuts to the heart.  It reveals not only a truth of nature, but a truth about our own perceptions (or lack).

If this revelation creates a desire in us for change, if we are formed (or perhaps re-formed is more apt…formed anew) by it, then I suppose we can say that the poet “made” more goodness, character, beauty.

Of course Peterson’s contention is that the Bible is the all-important text for our spiritual formation. We are not to “use” Scripture for our own goals, plans, information or agenda. Rather, we are to ingest it so that it permeates us, becomes part of us, nurturing us as the best food does.

“Eating a book,” he writes, “takes it all in, assimilating it into the tissues of our lives  Readers become what they read.”   I do believe that “it is the very nature of” Scripture to form rather than inform. I’m just not convinced that the same is true of language in general.

the treasure and the fool–a parable retold

I confessed to my friend Jon last week that the very brief parables of Jesus, about the treasure hid in a field and the pearl of great price, don’t seem to me to make much sense if you try to think about them logically.  I had wrestled with the limitations of parables a couple of years ago, and decided that as metaphors for giving up everything in order to have the Kingdom of God, these extremely brief statements work.  I guess.  It’s just that my mind keeps on asking more hard questions:  Whose treasure was  in the field?  Are there ethical concerns there?  Did the merchant pay fair market value for the pearl?  If he had to give up all he owned in order to purchase it, I picture him standing there with nothing but the pearl, thinking, “Now what?”

It reminded me of the auction scene in Oklahoma!, where the cowboy Curly sells his gun and his horse in order to keep Jud Fry from winning Laurey’s picnic hamper.  At the end of the night, all he has is the hamper…and Laurey.  And that seems to be enough.  As I continued to think about the foolishness of this picture, a new thought began to form in my mind.  I wonder if this is what Jesus intended all along.  Here’s my parable remix:

Shlomo the merchant walked quickly through the marketplace.  His rapid pace and his impressive bearing both hurried lesser folks out of his way. But he could always hear the whispers in his wake, as if the breeze he created with his robes stirred up the old rumors every time.

Such a prosperous man, nu?  Well he may appear that way…but what I’ve heard is that, his parents…?  They were slaves.  No, it’s truth!  As I live and breathe…

Outwardly serene, even cold, the merchant heaved an inward sigh.  Yes, his poor parents: they worked to earn their own freedom, then slaved on to earn his…and to pay for him to be educated in Greek, Hebrew and Latin. “Fools,” they were called. Lavishing the fruit of so many years’ hardship on their only child.  But they ignored those voices.  Then it was time to apprentice him to a trade, another expense.   Shlomo was intended to be a jeweler, a craftsman in gold, silver and precious gems.  Early on it was obvious he had the eye: keen and discerning, seeing every flaw in every stone.   He could have made diadems for princes, become a legend of artistry.  But Shlomo knew one thing:  never would he earn enough to buy one of the gorgeous pieces that he could make for kings.  Nor would he be able to set his parents in the kind of comfort they deserved.

So, quietly, he began to horde every shekel and to talk in corners with other craftsmen.  Would you like to sell your work in other cities?  Would you like someone to get you better quality stones?  When his apprenticeship ended, he astonished his master and his family by announcing an entirely new profession.

Shlomo chuckled to himself, remember their reaction. “What are you thinking? You’re a fool!  You can’t just decide to become what you are not…”

But foolish or not, he set out on his first buying trip.  And returned successful. And went again.  He prospered, in fact.  His reputation grew, and more and more those who knew of Shlomo would buy gems only from him.  Craftsmen with fine work to sell would sidle up to him, hoping to please him with their wares enough that he would condescend to buy from them…and resell at a profit to himself.

His wealth increased alongside his fame.  His parents lived, and died, in luxurys they never would have dreamed of for themselves.  But Shlomo still pressed on, driven to achieve something that no one could quite put a finger on.  It was obvious that he was not content.  But what more could he possibly want?

Shlomo knew what he wanted.  What he dreamed of, night after restless night. He wanted to find and possess a single blood-red gem without a flaw.  He’d heard street talk, tall tales about jewels of enormous size and exquisite beauty.  He took dusty side-trips on his journeys, miles of discomfort out of his way, to talk to dealers in stones who were reputed to handle “only the best.”  Every time, Shlomo found a flaw.  Some defect, however small, which marred the perfection of the stone.  Had there never been any perfect gem?

So Shlomo persevered, his hopes fading with the years, although his eyes were still as keen.  And then, on a common day, in a common back-alley souk, with heat and smells and voices all around him, he found it:  a perfect blood red gem.  He stood and stared at it, turning it over and over in his fingers, holding it to the light again and again, afraid to believe in what he saw.

“How much for this?”  he asked the dealer, who was smiling quietly, patiently on his bench.

“Ah, respected sir, I don’t know whether you, even you, have wealth enough to purchase that stone…though I have held it back from other eyes so that you could see it first.”

“I thank you for the honor…but the price?”

So much. A price beyond his means, indeed.  Perhaps even a bit inflated?  But no,  for such a perfect stone, there was no question, that was a fair price.  What to do?

“How long will you be in this town? Will you stay awhile in my home, so that I may gather enough to buy this stone from you?”

The dealer agreed.  And the merchant went to work, not buying now, but selling, hurrying from place to place with the things he had amassed.  But as shrewd as Shlomo was at buying jewels, he was no con man when it came to selling his own goods.  His camels, his few personal jewels, all went for less than he’d have liked.  Frantically, he realized that it would take much more of his assets than he’d imagined.

Over their wine that evening, Shlomo and the dealer talked about the gem. “What would you say to taking all my household furnishings in exchange for the stone?”

“Where would I put such fine things, even to store and resell them? I deal in jewels because they’re small, sir. And–no offense, your home is very fine–but I’m not sure the value of your goods is equal to the stone.”

“No.  You’re right.  Well…what if I offered my house and the goods? My wardrobe, too…I have far more fine clothes than any man needs.  I have a servant. He would be yours also. What say you now?”

“Done!  That is an offer I think very fair.” And before the neighbors had time to do more than speculate as to where Shlomo could have gone with only the robe and tunic and cloak on his back, and long before they got the name of the new tenant in the fine house, Shlomo was gone, the beautiful red gem in his hand.  And nothing else.

He walked and walked, conscious only of possessing his heart’s desire.  Finally, he stopped and looked about him.  He’d left the town behind and night was coming down damply on his shoulders.  He had no home, no bed, no attendant. No money in his sack, no sack to put it in.  No livelihood because no stock in trade and no way to buy any new…except of course for IT.  He opened his hand and looked at it gleaming dully in the light of the rising moon.   No. He would never sell that.

So.  What was he then?  It came to him that perhaps he was a fool.  And all at once he laughed, and went on laughing as he walked on into the night.  When he came to another town, he’d hire himself to some prosperous citizen, as a worthy household slave.  Yes.  That would be fitting.  Clutching his treasure, Shlomo the fool walked on.

———————-

“I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish…” – Phil. 3:8

“We are fools for Christ…” — I Cor. 4:10

John 20:24-29 A meditation

A piece I read elsewhere reminded me of this post I wrote two years ago on my old blog.

We’ve labelled him “the doubter.”  Written him off, in a way.  Less “spiritual.”  But how is he less spiritual than the other disciples?  They didn’t get it, either…saw the empty tomb, heard reports, recalled Jesus’ own words.  But they didn’t really believe it until they saw Him. 

Where was Thomas?  Was his grief so great that he’d withdrawn?  He’d been willing to go to Jerusalem and die with Jesus.  But he didn’t.  Seems as if he and Peter could have commiserated, but Thomas was absent. Maybe it was his turn to gather food for the group in hiding.  Or was he attending to the needs of family somewhere?  Whatever he was doing, wherever he’d gone, he missed Jesus’ visit.  So how did he feel when he heard about that?  Talk about being left out!  The inner circle only has 11 men in it to begin with…and he’s the odd man out.

I’d be bitter, personally.  Even if it was Jesus alive again, obviously I wasn’t important enough to wait for.  He didn’t care enough to see me.  Well, fine.  Maybe it hurts so much to have been excluded that Thomas decides it’s easier to pretend that they were all hallucinating.  It would be better to consign Jesus to the grave again, than to think He’d avoided seeing me on purpose.

Now it’s been eight days.  The others want to talk about the Master, compare notes, speculate, report other “sightings.”  But they can’t help seeing that Thomas grits his teeth and stares at the tabletop whenever the Lord is mentioned. So they clam up again.

Around dinnertime that day, with locked doors and everyone busy about his own task, there is Jesus.  He’s just–there.  And He heads straight for Thomas…slack-jawed, silent, barely-breathing Thomas.  “So–do you still want to see the scars?  Touch the nail holes?”  I think He’s smiling as He holds out His hands.  “Put your fingers where the spear went?”  He makes a gesture as if He’ll disrobe upon request, awkward as it would be.

None of it is necessary now.  Thomas is on his knees, weeping, gasping for air to fill his lungs and calm his pounding heart.  He just wanted to know that Jesus hadn’t forgotten him, disowned him…wherever He’d gone.  And the words that tumble out of his mouth show us that Thomas believes–no doubt about it!

“My Lord!  My God!”  Words of worship; active, believing identification. 

“Do you believe because You’ve seen Me now?”  (Just like the others needed to see me? I hoped for more faith from you, Thomas…but it’s all right. I’m here now.)  Then, as if time had wrinkled and Jesus could look right into my room here in 2007, He mentions me, mentions us:  “Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe.”  And suddenly I see a profound purpose in Thomas’ exclusion, and in his confession.

For 2,000 years people have read the good news with pounding hearts and gasped out, “My Lord and my God!”  And aren’t our confessions possible in part because of the role the disciples played?  These gritty, struggling, confused men are real people.  They really knew Jesus.  They questioned and doubted, and believed.  I think it’s their struggle to believe–especially Thomas’ struggle–that convinces me.  They didn’t hear a vague rumor and let wishful thinking fill in the blanks.  They saw the risen Lord–talked with Him, ate with Him, embraced Him.  He was real, and He is real to us today, thanks to Thomas and his companions.  Thomas with his bad rap as a doubter…sitting at Jesus’ feet, I’ll bet Thomas doesn’t even mind.

what kind of god

It is larger than life–its theme, its style and its subject:  an eight-foot tall Creature, stuff of horror but also pitiful, the result of one man’s vain experiment in conquering death.  The music soars, the icebergs float soundlessly.  Near the end, the scientist is pursuing his foul creation across Europe and into the Arctic Circle.  The Creature, amazed that this puny man has not succumbed to exhaustion and death, asks:

What kind of god is so consumed with hate for his creature that he will pursue it to his own destruction?

(For the powerfully moving ending, go and see Frankenstein, the new musical at the Civic Theater, while you still can. The final performance is March 22nd.)

It is impossible not to make comparisons.  Another larger than life story, a man who drew enormous crowds, while igniting hatred against himself, who fed thousands, healed illness, raised the dead without lightning flashes or horrible effects.  And at the end, bleeding, dying in agony…one who had been with him could have asked:

What kind of God is so consumed with love for His creation that He will pursue it to His own crucifixion?

(For the powerfully moving answer, check out any New Testament for one of the gospel accounts.)

Practice the hard bits more

I’m not sure why my thoughts strayed to piano teaching the other morning, when I was praying. (Why do my thoughts ever stray at that time? A perennial question.)  I recalled my conversation with Angela about the “hard parts” needing more practice than the “easy parts.”

“Think about it, honey,” I said. “If some measures are really easy for you, and some give you lots of trouble, how does it help to just start at the beginning and play the piece straight through?  You’d always be playing the easy parts just as much as you do the hard ones.”

It strikes me that this must be true of practice in general, and therefore of practicing the spiritual disciplines, too.  I have the same challenge facing me which faces my piano students:  I have to identify the parts which give me the most problem, so that I can focus more energy on fixing those parts.

So–what are the hard things for me in the Christian walk?  Is it the “praying without ceasing” command?  The love of God with all that I am and have?  The love of others as myself?  Is it tithing or fasting or reading or meditating?  It’s a good solid question, which deserves pray and seeking an answer from God.  Then when the problem is identified, I can further pray about my plan for improving in that area.

Maybe I should start with keeping my thoughts from straying during prayer?

Not “therefore” but “thus”—

A new command I give you: Love one another.  As I have loved you, so you must love one another.  By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you love one another.

–John 13:34-35

I’ve always assumed that Jesus was making an “if–then” statement in the above verse.  In other words, “Since I love you, therefore you should love one another, too.”

But what if  “As…so” means:  “In the same way I love you, thus you must love one another.”

And in WHAT way did Jesus love them?  How would He answer that?

• I loved you by humbling myself to serve you.
• I loved you meekly, not overwhelming you with displays of power to intimidate you.
• I always wanted what my Father God wanted for you.  I challenged your thinking gently but persistently.
• I met your physical needs.
• I sacrificed My life for you.
• I showed you the Father.

Lord Jesus, help me to love others the way you love, today, tomorrow and every day.

Troubled

…You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me; you have anointed my head with oil, and my cup is running over…

–Psalm 23:5, Revised English Bible, c. 1976, Oxford University Press.

Anything trouble you about this translation?  It certainly brought me up short when I read it last night in The Divine Hours, pocket edition (Phyllis Tickle, editor).  After looking at all 18 available English translations on Bible Gateway (along with both French translations), I’m even more puzzled as to how “enemies” or “foes” or “adversaries” could have become “those who trouble me”.

Lots of people trouble me, often without intention or even awareness on their part.  My sons trouble me, a lot.  Some politicians trouble me, big time.  Rude sales clerks irk me.  But are they the adversaries in the presence of whom God has spread a banquet for me? I am going to assume that “those who trouble me” must imply that they intentionally want to cause me trouble.

I’m fascinated by how much that simple change of phrase has personalized this verse for me…a verse I never could relate to, since I don’t consider myself to have any enemies per se.   I’m fascinated–but troubled, because the immediate mental picture which sprang to mind was of our younger son.  I’d just had yet another long conversation with him about how he sees no evidence of God’s goodness or truth in his life, and no value in the Bible.  (To his credit, he is really wrestling with these issues, talking frankly with us and not letting go of his anger.  We find this much more encouraging than his apathy would be.)

Of course one’s own family being adversaries is not an unbiblical notion either.

“Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn
” ‘a man against his father,
a daughter against her mother,
a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—
a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.’

“Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

–Matthew 10:34-39, NIV, emphasis mine.

At this point, the aggressor in our home is hoping (at least this is his overt goal) to make us admit that our faith is unsubstantiated, bogus.  He troubles us with hostile, inflammatory language.  Sometimes I refuse to engage. Once I answered his question in writing, and may choose to do so again.   My hope is that somewhere in the midst of this battle–much of which is being waged with his own spirit–the Holy Spirit will be able to pierce the shell of willful unbelief with truth.  The bonds of self-deception are thick and tangled, and I know there is only One who can set him free.

This said, I return to the psalm and I wonder:  What is the purpose of spreading a table in front of one’s foes?  Is it a picture of being vindicated publicly?  Divinely favored, in the face of those who have questioned, “Where is your God?”  Did any of King David’s enemies turn to the Lord when they saw that God was with him? I’m betting they did. All of which brings me back to that verse I mentioned in a post last week:

But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect…

–I Peter 3:15

As I bear witness to the ways that God encourages me–and I’d better be paying attention to those daily ways!–with gentleness and respect, might not the one who now troubles me begin to develop a hunger for the feast that I enjoy?  Indeed, I think he’s already getting hunger pangs.  He just can’t admit it yet.

Another “new” idea that proves to be old…

I commented to a book-loving friend that I felt as if I’d read the same book over and over again throughout 2008.  The theme of why the Christian Church (in general, but the American church in particular) has such limited impact on society, and the importance of getting back to obedient discipleship (or apprenticeship) and spreading the message of the Kingdom, are treated over and over, a modern theme and variations.  Rob Bell, Shane Claiborne, Brian McLaren and Dallas Willard–among others–are all preaching this message in compelling ways to Christians, seekers and many who are disenchanted with organized religion.

I decided to begin a new year by trying (again) to read a classic text which has been gathering dust on my shelf while I read all these newcomers:  The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  After just a few pages I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.  Sixty years ago, in the midst of a world war, in a different country, in a different language, and there’s the theme yet again.   Is it the most important message anyone can deliver, or am I personally being hounded by heaven?  And if the latter, what am I to do about it?

Bonhoeffer makes an intriguing case for the paradox that both the following statements are equally true at the same time:

Only he who believes is obedient.

Only he who is obedient believes.

In other words, obedience is impossible for an unbeliever…and it is nonnegotiable for a believer.  Bonhoeffer seems to see obedience rather than faith as the “first” step.  Jesus calls, we obey the call which leads to belief which compels us to further obedience and deeper faith.

And so this got me to thinking:  I know two young men who once professed belief.  Now they deny any spiritual convictions whatsoever.  They want to do their own thing.  I certainly don’t expect them to “obey” like believers when they don’t believe.  But I wonder:  is it a measure of integrity that they have jettisoned belief because they see the necessary connection between faith and action?  Or are they simply trading one sin (disobedience) for another (dishonesty)–talking themselves out of legitimate faith in order to avoid the guilt of disobedience?  Or does it even matter?  If they are not obedient, then in Bonhoeffer’s view, they are not believers, period.

And what will make them want to believe? Surely it will be a call from Christ, though who knows how or when it will come.  Meanwhile, do they see any Christians being obedient to their faith?  That seems to be the recurring question: what has God ever done for you? How is your life different/better because you believe?

And I am chagrined to find that I stumble over the answer to that.  One of my resolutions this week is to take seriously Peter’s charge:  Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. (I Peter 3:15) I’m pretty sure that’s a charge to which I need to be obedient.

It keeps coming up…

Have you ever noticed that when you learn something new, suddenly you hear about it everywhere?  Or you get a different car, and now it seems that every other car on the road is the same make?  It’s not as if the word ‘acedia’ is coming up in conversations all over the place, but the concept certainly is.

In Sunday School our teacher was talking about “settling” for less in life, and why we don’t pursue spiritual things more aggressively.  Some people mentioned fear of failure or fear of rejection. Others said they don’t have time.  Some admitted that we do other things instead, because we’re seeking to fulfill an immediate need.  I suggested that actually we’re not fulfilling any real need, but trying to numb ourselves against our own dissatisfaction.

We live in a world of media, and I wonder how much of our time connected to a computer, an IPod, a DVD screen or a video game is meant to distract us from a whole list of “shoulds” or “what ifs” or “if onlys”?   Acedia is the demon of “I’ll think about that later”…”I’m too tired now”…”it doesn’t really matter anyway”…  A generation of procrastinating students don’t do any homework at all because “when am I ever going to use this information in the real world?”  They plug into ear-damaging music, send each other messages filled with wild fantasy, play endless rounds of Guitar Hero and Grand Theft Auto.  And of course this is so much more useful in the “real world”…

I’m not trying to sound like a last-generation fogey.  My generation turns on the TV, picks up the phone, eats another cookie, reads a magazine or a novel, checks e-mail again.  We’re all professional-level procrastinators, and I think it’s the spirit of the age.  Acedia isn’t just a personal demon any more.  It’s a prime tool of the prince of the power of the air(waves) which makes us feel mildly productive when we’re only getting better at avoiding what’s important.  Our instant access to world news increases our helpless despair…what can I do about war in Israel, or another shooting in a shopping mall, or the plummeting stock market?

What we don’t ask is, “What is my next-door neighbor’s greatest need?”  Heck, often we don’t even know her name.  What we don’t ask is, “What could I do for two hours this week to better my community?”  I’m preaching to myself here, folks, so if this doesn’t apply to you I’m envious.  It definitely applies to me.   And I really hope that these thoughts and ideas and images don’t go away any time soon. I hope they keep coming up.  Maybe then I’ll do something about them.

For one idea of a social issue to pursue, you could read Jon’s post for today, where he talks about his friend, Dian.

Acedia as the sin against myself–“How is it that we choose to sin and wither?”

The quote above is Dante again, to which Kathleen Norris responds: “The question presumes the freedom to choose; if I am truthful with myself, I recognize that in midlife, there are many days in which I indeed choose to sin and wither. Even if I can think of ways in which I might rouse myself from lethargy, I resist acting on them.” (Acedia & Me, page 201)

The picture of sinning as withering makes it clear that the choice of passivity, non-caring, is a self-destructive one. Isn’t it ironic that we sometimes get to this place of lead-limbed inaction through a misguided sense of ‘taking care of myself for a change’?

Perhaps I become weary with doing good—and as Ruth pointed out in a comment recently, it may be that I was doing too much, or taking on burdens not rightly mine. In any event, I am not seeking God’s face and asking for my proper work (Ephesians 2:10). It may begin to feel as if God is requiring too much of me. So I deaden myself to agape and replace it with a languid narcissism, acedia. I reject discipline as being tedious or repetitive. I embrace the new, the sensational.

But though I may think I’m seeking an exciting life, I’m really only looking for new ways to be passively entertained. My senses become dulled to what is productive, life-affirming and God-honoring. In any “activity” I should ask: who am I serving with this? If the answer is too often “me” then acedia rules our hearts.

Now listen: we’re not talking about the healthy care for one’s physical, mental and emotional health. And an occasional self-indulgence as a “treat” is a vastly different thing from wallowing in amusement—a word which literally means to not think. But like the naughty boys in Pinocchio who are enslaved because of a surfeit of sweets, sin “so easily entangles” us…once we awaken to truth, it can seem like a hole too deep to climb out of.

I wonder if perhaps acedia is sometimes a defense mechanism we use when we think we’re too far gone. We choose to deceive ourselves into thinking that “it doesn’t matter” what we do or don’t do. The demon’s lies seem plausible at times when we feel that either God doesn’t care what we do, or we can never live a life that pleases Him enough, so why try? As Norris says, “When we are convinced that we are beyond the reach of grace, acedia has done its work.”