Was it a good time to get married?

29 02 2012

My wife and I have been enjoying married life for the past six months. We regularly look back to our engagement, wedding and honeymoon. In every way, it seemed to be perfect timing. When some of my friends heard I was engaged and about to be married, one of the comments was «Well, it’s about time! You’re in your thirties!!»

It snowed on our wedding day. Some would say that’s terrible. We thought it was exciting – perfect timing! Our second evening as a married couple was Valentine’s day. We ate at a charming restaurant to the sound of a violin and guitar. That too seemed like perfect timing!

During these past months, though, magazines and statistics here in France are noting how marriage is less and less popular[1]. Marriage is seen more and more as «a noose choking you, an exhausting burden».

So, I could not help but wonder, was it really a good time to get married?

Jean-Claude Kaufmann, a French sociologist, makes some interesting remarks: «The general movement towards individualism and celibacy is complex… It is rare, for example, that singleness is deliberately sought. Yet a growing number of those who live it don’t wish to leave it (at least temporarily), or have high expectations on the conditions for leaving it.»[2]

As one who was single for over three decades, I think his observation on complexity is accurate. When we consider the different paths people follow, many factors are at play around us and in us, making it difficult to understand why many of us remain single. In many ways, singleness is a great option. It can be very well lived. Yet, as I look back to my own path, does that mean that I didn’t have any other commitments ? Jean-Claude Guillebaud makes a provocative statement about our generation: «We judge the value of constancy, commitment and perseverance as if that involves a benevolent servitude which has become outrageous. [...]  Amazingly though, we willingly submit at the same time to other types of commitment which previously would have been judged constraining, for example, allegiance to a professional project, to oneself against all odds, to a social group or, of course, to one’s own natural tendencies.»[3] It is not that we do not know about commitment anymore. Instead, other commitments have taken the place of marriage. They come with their own limitations and burdens.

So, was it a good time to get married? At our wedding celebration, a Bible verse was shared that I found insightful. «Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm. » (Song of Solomon 8:6). The woman in the poem is asking her spouse for a commitment, inwardly and outwardly, to remain faithful to her. Wouldn’t one’s spouse find more security and stability through one’s commitment to marriage? Wouldn’t it be more fulfilling to lighten the other’s burden for him or her to be more free ?

That pattern of a commitment that sets free, lightens the burden is not easy to maintain, though. But it is found ultimately in the love Christ demonstrated, which the Scriptures place as the model of all relationships, marriage included. « Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for her » (Ephesians 5:25). At the appointed time, he was committed to love and give Himself totally.

Paul Harrison

[1]« Pacs ou mariage, faire le bon choix » Publié le 30/06/2010 lepoint.fr ; http://www.insee.fr/fr/themes/document.asp?ref_id=ip1276#inter2

[2] Jean-Claude Kaufmann, La femme seule et le prince charmant, Nathan, 1999, p. 19

[3] Jean-Claude Guillebaud, La tyrannie du plaisir, Seuil, 1998, p. 471-472


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Categories : On Anything and Everything

Red Carpet Tales

27 02 2012

My wife dragged me to watch the red carpet coverage of one of the last Academy Awards. (Ok, this is my macho excuse to justify my presence in front of the TV…) The red carpet was as always a runway of design dresses, flower shoes, debut jewels, arresting looks to the camera, and the same exclamation to every actress, “You look SO fabulous!!!”, of course
to the same reply, “You TOO!” Seasoned actors paid their annual visit while young ones tried to hide their nervousness. The coverage brought in specialists to analyze people’s movie records, hair styles, silhouettes, make-up, cleavage or the lack of it.  It was, in sum, a spectacle of colors, looks and gossip.

To watch the red carpet always opens the bittersweet dam of envy. Millions of people glue to the telly wondering why didn’t they choose a more glamorous profession, or whether they will ever get the recognition they dream of, or why don’t they look as dazzling as Hollywood, or how much money they have to make for a gorgeous babe to settle as their girlfriend. They covet the semi-god status of modern-day celebrities; they wish fate had smiled to them and made them captivating.

But every now and then the camera spots a celebrity picking his nose or a chubby moustache limo driver or the terrified eyes of someone wishing she wasn’t there. Every now and then a crack disrupts the cinematic aura. The festival of beauty and vanity is a TV production after all; that glamorous world does not exist. Everybody on the red carpet will still step home and remove their make-up wondering what they have to accomplish to fell valued and complete someday, or at least win an Oscar, or perhaps a second one.

A surprising example of that were the declarations of Megan Fox, maybe three or four Oscars ago. When the red carpet reporter asked her how she felt, with all the attention lavished on her prettiness, she described how ugly and insecure she felt, and how she felt like vomiting. In a recent interview, Megan disclosed: “in terms of how I look, I’m completely, hysterically insecure. I’m self-loathing, introverted and neurotic.” Megan may be unusually open, but I guess these feelings are not hers alone.

The human heart feels empty. It runs anxiously insecure, no matter the amount of fame showered on it, ever desperate for attention and embrace. Our hearts have fun with dresses and compliments and cameras, but they long for more still. They long for a peace not available around here; they tasted just enough of eternity to crave for it with all their might. No amount of red carpet splendour can ever heal them.

René Breuel


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Categories : On Anything and Everything

More wine, more glory

24 02 2012

The story of the wedding at Cana in John 2, the account of Jesus turning water into wine, is one of the best known episodes in the New Testament, if not the whole Bible. The author, John, tells us that this was the first miraculous sign by which God revealed his glory (v. 11). Ever thought about what it means that the first sign God gives to reveal his glory, the substance of his character, is the production of alcohol?

Let’s set the scene. In the story, Mary, Jesus and his disciples are at a wedding. Some way through the celebrations, Mary alerts Jesus to the fact that the hosts have run out of wine, to which Jesus replies, “Woman, why do you involve me?” (v.4). I would love to know with what sort of tone Jesus said this, it seems like such a curious thing for him to say! Was he absorbed in a fascinating conversation that he didn’t want to wrench himself away from? Was he just generally tired of his mother’s interference?? I’m not sure, and we’ll never be sure, because his question is not answered. We don’t know why Mary involves Jesus here. She ignores his question, giving instructions to the servants simply to do whatever he tells them. They obey, filling some bath sized jars with water, which Jesus turns into fine wine.

How can it be that John associates this act with the revelation of God’s glory? I mean, seriously?? There’s a wedding. The party is in full swing, probably has been for days, and what started out as a copious amount of alcohol turns out not to be enough. The pressure is on the hosts to keep their guests fed and watered. Why should God help out?

Besides, by the time Mary intervenes, it’s quite likely that Jesus is surrounded by people who are drunk or heading that way. As the master of the banquet says to the bridegroom in verse 10, ‘Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink…’ The presenting problem in John 2 is that both the good wine and the cheaper wine have been consumed. It’s all gone. It’s in this context that Jesus says, ‘Okay, you’ve run out of booze. Why do you involve me?’

We don’t know why Mary thought her son should be involved in this domestic crisis. John merely tells us that this spectacular deed – turning water into wine – is the first sign through which Jesus, God in the flesh, revealed his glory. Basically, John is telling us that the glory of holy God is revealed first and foremost in an act of extraordinary, controversial and extravagant blessing, something designed not to put Israel on the map or tighten up the moral code; something designed to keep the party going, or perhaps to get the party truly started.

The wedding at Cana is not about taking care not to overdo it (that’s for another time and place). And it’s not a story to tell if you want people to believe that the emphasis in Christianity is on sin.

According to John, God’s first sign to the world, his first attempt to show people what he’s really like, is to give them more of something they really enjoy, more wine and more of the best, more goodness, more fun, more life, more reasons to celebrate. He gives them more when they thought they’d had enough. Not mindless excess, but the overflowing abundance of life.

Why did Mary involve God? We don’t know. But God got involved at her request. The wedding at Cana shows us not only that God isn’t afraid to associate his glory with something earthy, like wine, but that the divine Creator submits himself to be moved by his creatures. Jesus told Mary that his time had not yet come (v. 4) yet at her prompting, he acts. Wine for them, glory for him. In some mysterious way, God’s heavenly glory is intricately connected with good things on earth. Next time you order a bottle for friends, remember that.

Madi Simpson


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Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

The Frustrated Photographer

22 02 2012

I have a love–hate relationship with photography. Ever since I was a kid, my recollection of events and places is tied to particular images either mum or I captured. My earliest memory is as a two year old, on a family holiday to New Zealand: we’re dressed in bright yellow plastic ponchos and I’m clinging to dad’s leg as this little tour boat cruises into the spray of a majestic waterfall. Flicking through mum’s extensive photo collection as a teen, I discovered this precise photo, detail for detail. Which came first: the experience or the image? I still don’t know.

Colloquially, my condition is known as ‘snap happy’. Once I possessed my first camera around ten, the world was mine. Any experience could be reproduced with an image. And there was no better experience to capture than a hike. Atop gusty Mt. Kinabalu in Malaysia; besides the still reflections of the Rockies on Lake Moraine; traversing craggy peaks at Cradle Mountain in Tasmania—wherever it may be, my trusty camera is by my side, ready to re-present the glories of God’s creation in a negative. So when we returned to New Zealand this last holiday—a haven for happy snappers—it was no surprise (or joy) to my wife Nikki that my camera came too.

On my good days, I love photography. The image is a marker stone celebrating where we’ve been. It reminds me of this impalpable beauty, this sense of wonder standing like a toddler before a world too big to fathom. Take the photo below. The day after a dump of fresh snow, Nik and I are tramping up to 1800 metres at Mueller Hut. We’re opposite New Zealand’s most famous peak, Aoraki, the cloud piercer—better known as Mt. Cook. I didn’t want to forget this! Simply stunning. I wielded my camera like a priest swinging his thurible as smoke fills the temple: click, click, click—my spirit sang something too deep for words as pixel met pixel in a panorama of praise. It didn’t seem to matter how many shots I snapped, I could never do this justice.


But herein lies my ‘hate’ relationship with photography, for I am a frustrated photographer. How much the flat image leaves out! Looking at this image, you just don’t get it! You can’t see the peaks past the white-space of the photo’s border. You aren’t chewing on fresh snow as it revives your energy following the tiring climb. You can’t sense the sun beating on your shoulders, or hear the song of the Kia as it swoops from God-knows where to steal your lunch! And that’s not even to mention the groan of the glacier and the thunderous crack of the occasional avalanche, all in the company of my beautiful and athletic wife! You see an image; I recall an experience. Two dimensions cannot do Mueller Hut justice! How irreducible is the grandeur of a mountain!

And yet, I do try. I persist in taking image after image, reducing the wonder to a digital reproduction viewable on my 5cm2 preview screen. But why? My frustration rises, though it’s no longer about the view. It’s about me.

It’s so subtle. The shift from praise to power is subconscious. Unlike my wife, content to swim in the ineffable experience—a small part of the whole, taking beauty into herself—I desire to ‘capture’ the moment. What is bigger than me must be reduced, made manageable—it’s to be controlled and brought out to impress friends. “Wow, you take great photos; where was that?” Yes, forget the scenery and notice my grandeur. My camera has become a mirror, celebrating my skill and reflecting my ego. One photo is never enough: I squat in the snow seeking just the right angle, and for good measure take another photo of my wife’s back—the frustrated photographer’s wife—as she treks on to greater vistas.

I and It, or I and Thou … how do we engage the world? Perhaps you’re familiar with this classic distinction made by Martin Buber way back in 1923. On that magnificent hike, seeing everything as through a lens, I managed to reduce creation, the Creator, and even my wife to an It. It is merely an object detached from myself, waiting to be managed, captured and controlled for my own purposes—a flat image to induce excitement over past experiences or adulation from impressed onlookers. Like a scientist staring only through a microscope, I was killing the specimen to keep it still. When the world reduced to an It, wonder gave way to frustration.

The same temptation presents in all manner of fields: the frustrated teacher, frustrated theologian, frustrated husband, frustrated son, the frustrated human. In trying to ‘capture’ something—whether a panorama or a potentate—we inevitably reduce it to something less than it is in order to bring it under our control. But creation and the Creator defies reduction. At the heart of our existence is relationship with an unbounded other, Thou. Approach with wonder; engage with delight—my best attempts to understand the other and re-present the experience are but a humble invitation to live beyond myself: my power, and my control.

The frustrated photographer in me is still learning to let go. I can’t capture a mountain; how much less can I capture the eternal Thou in whom we all live, move and have our being. Without meaning to sound cliché, I am so thankful to God who has already offered us the perfect image in His Son.[1] I don’t yet perceive or relate as I ought, but by His humble self disclosure and ineffable light, I’m beginning to see everything else clearly.

Dave Benson

[1] John 14:9; Colossians 1:15-20; Hebrews 1:3.


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Categories : On Anything and Everything, Spirituality for the Rest of Us, The Heart of Faith

The Fellowship of Runners

20 02 2012

When Rolling Stones magazine interviewed U2 singer Bono, and asked which kind of music turns him on, Bono answered in a surprising and self-revealing way. “The music that really turns me on is either running toward God or away from God. Both recognize the pivot, that God is at the center of the jaunt.”[1]

Music that runs toward or away from God. I would imagine Bono would choose songs by their rhythm, by their catchy chorus, by their ability to move a stadium with its melody. Maybe he would be attracted to romantic lyrics, peppered with sensuality and longing, or maybe to music that resounds in people’s hearts and influences a generation. Yet Bono goes for our existential core: our gut reaction before ultimate reality, our instinctive surrender to God’s presence or haunted flight from his face.

I, for one, am more of a surrender type of guy, but I’m fascinated by the fellowship of runners. You know, by that anguished avoidance of God, stubborn and defiant, which tries to outrun infinity and outsmart omniscience. I admire this kind of persistence – it feels almost like a little dwarf’s rebellion – and, if I may confess some sadistic impulses, I enjoy seeing people avoid the inevitable and fight until the last breadth against God. It is entertaining. It is like children kicking and struggling against a spoonful of chocolate, only to enjoy it the minute it enters their mouth. I’m not quite sure why I enjoy this final struggle, maybe because I see it s the final tantrum of sin before the flood of grace, but when I see someone running away from God, I smile, and try to stay around long enough to see God catching up.

Can I share some scenes of my sadistic voyeurism? Let’s start with red meat, you know, a good sinner of old, a mighty oak falling down. Augustine narrates in his Confessions how he tried to run from God, and revels in the foolishness of it: “I would only hide thee from myself, not myself from thee.”[2] Augustine’s is a fascinating journey, elaborated by a great soul-physician in the Confessions, until he comes to the decisive moment: “Thou didst call and cry aloud, and didst force open by deafness. Thou didst gleam and shine, and didst chase away my blindness. Thou didst breathe fragrant odors and I drew in my breath; and now I pant for thee. I tasted, and now I hunger and thirst. Thou didst touch me, and I burned for thy peace.”[3]

Good stuff, eh? I like C. S. Lewis’ final struggles too, and the silent resistance he tried to muster to the last, even against a palpable sense of God’s presence. Lewis narrates in his autobiography:

“You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him who I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps the most defected and reluctant convert in all England.”[4]

But let me acknowledge it too. Maybe I enjoy seeing these moments in others not much for the agony’s sake – though that is fun, I admit – but maybe, if I may face my own resistance, because I enjoy the moments when God finally wins me over, and overflows my opposition, and reluctantly I let myself kneel and pray. I like seeing it in others because I see that this reluctance is not only my own, and even a stubborn like myself is within the reach of grace. I see David trying to make his bed in the depths, and feel I’m not down there by myself – there’s God, and there’s David hiding too, who tells me to shush and go hide somewhere else. If these dwarves dared to resist God, my own short arms and legs don’t seem to so foolish either. I can rest, and open myself, and let God arrive, and thank him for seeking such a small-minded fool as I.

René Breuel

[2]     Augustine, The Confessions of St. Augustine, ed. and trans. Albert Cook Outler (Mineola, New York: Dover, 2002), X.II.2.

[3]     Ibid., X.XXVII.38.

[4] C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy: The Shape of my Early Life (Orlando: Harcourt, 1955), 228-229.


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Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

A Barking Dilemma

17 02 2012

One of my children is in trouble with the law….

About midnight a few weeks ago, just as I was falling asleep, I awoke with a start as Ziva, our two-year-old Great Dane puppy began barking like mad. Instantly, I knew we had heard the same thing: the sound of someone jiggling our front door handle. By the time I got downstairs and looked out the window, the individual had disappeared into the night but their fresh tracks in the snow led across our lawn into the dark of our neighbor’s yard. Although we usually do not let Ziva bark late at night, we let Ziva outside on this occasion to bark for a few minutes, just to let whoever it was know that we have a very, very big dog….

This decision to let our dog bark outside and, hopefully, scare away any nefarious people lurking about is one made in specific response to the reality of the neighborhood in which we live. It isn’t a bad neighborhood but it is a transitional area and there is a fair bit of petty and not so petty theft on a regular basis. On our street there have been numerous break-ins in the past year. Neighbors just a few doors up have had a big screen TV stolen and, on another occasion, their car window was smashed for the beer in the backseat. Other neighbors have also had their cars broken into and many have complained about people trying front and back doors at night, just to see if they are open. We even had an expensive bike stolen from our garage recently: it was chained to the wall and the chain had been cut through like it was butter. Ziva woke up barking like mad on that night, too, but we thought she was just being annoying and so we ignored her.

In light of these petty thefts, which average about two a month in our little neighborhood of 1 square km, we have started letting Ziva out to bark more at night and, when we go out to see what she’s barking at, we often hear footsteps or a bicycle disappearing into the dark of the alley or woods behind us. We’ve spoken with our neighbors on both sides of our house and both have said that they don’t mind Ziva barking—in fact, they have said that they appreciate the added security that her barking brings to their houses as well.

But now, Ziva is in trouble with the law. We’ve received an official, anonymous complaint that her barking is annoying one of our neighbors.

It is true, Ziva does enjoy barking, especially at night, especially when people are riding up and down the ally on bikes checking garage doors, house door, and car doors for things to steal. Ironically, the city recognizes that dogs often bark at things that are out of the ordinary or that they perceive as a threat; a statement to this effect comes with the official notice of a barking complaint. The suggestion, in such cases, is to keep the dog from hearing or seeing things outside that will make it bark, which defeats any actual function that a dog might perform in alerting his or her people that there is someone suspicious in the bushes. (For readers who wish to suggest obedience classes or that Ziva is neglected, let me mention that she is a well-trained, well-exercised dog who is with us all day and that she lives in a state of comfort that exceeds the living standards of many children in developing nations. Thus, simply exercising her more or obedience classes aren’t the answer in this situation.)

Now, we’re faced with a dilemma: do we confront our neighbors? Do we go door-to-door with our collective tails between our legs, apologizing and justifying ourselves to each house on the block or do we get a shock collar and put a stop to all Ziva’s barking?

I’d like to say that there is a deep spiritual lesson in all this. But as I consider the Sermon on the Mount and passages like “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” and “and if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well” and “Settle matters quickly with your adversary who is taking you to court” it seems that the lesson is pretty simple: the heart of the Christian faith is relational, it is about life together as a community, in a community. There is no hard and fast rule about how to deal with a barking dog in a semi-crime-prone neighborhood. The implication, though, is that complaints, disagreements, and disputes are to be settled together, in conversation, with respect and love for the other person. So, it looks like we’re in for a walk down the street…

Jessica Hughes

 


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Categories : Bar Conversations and Cheap Advice

Madonna, World Peace, and Religious Pluralism

15 02 2012

World Peace was center stage during Madonna’s halftime performance at this year’s Super Bowl. For our Wondering Fair readers uninterested in American culture or sports, I will spare you the details of the well-choreographed and highly entertaining spectacle. This essay focuses less on the glitz and glamour of the Super Bowl than on the possibility of world peace in an age of religious pluralism. 2011 as we know was a year rife with protests, so is world peace in the way Madonna envisions possible? Can we all learn to “coexist,” as the trendy bumper stickers encourage us to do? Madonna’s halftime performance seems to suggest that we can achieve global shalom, but it’s hard to imagine such a world when our current economic, political, and religious differences are so severe.

On the religious front, one proposal to help establish world peace is to adopt a position called religious pluralism. Promulgated by academic theologians like Wilfred Cantwell Smith and John Hick, religious pluralism is the idea that all religions are essentially equal paths up the same divine mountain. Each simply recognizes Truth in a different way, though all roads lead to God. In Hick’s own words, “pluralism is the view that the great world faiths embody different perceptions and conceptions of, and correspondingly different responses to, the Real or the Ultimate from within the major variant cultural ways of being human….”[1] Here, in his desire to remain religiously neutral, Hick substitutes the word “Real” for God, a term which has a clear Abrahamic bias. The benefits of religious pluralism, it is thought, are that people may stop trying to convert or coerce others into their way of thinking and thereby live together in harmony.

Despite good intentions, there are several problems with religious pluralism. First, it is methodologically flawed. In an attempt to find what is common to all faiths, the pluralist is forced to ignore seriously important elements of each religion. The things that make religions unique—such as the Trinity for Christians or the prophecy of Muhammad for Muslims—are routinely trivialized and viewed as unnecessary additions. To suggest that Christians or Muslims willingly give up their core doctrines in favor of a far more ambiguous pluralist picture of the divine seems ill-conceived.

Second, pluralism is morally problematic. If the Real does not reveal Itself to people in history, then the religious practices of faithful Hindus, Jews, Christians, and Muslims are based on misunderstandings. Since the Real hides Itself from everyone (except for Hick and other pluralists!) and remains fundamentally mysterious to us, we are in the dark morally and cannot live in a way that pleases the Real. This deep agnosticism which runs through religious pluralism makes it especially difficult to discern right from wrong.

Third, pluralism is logically impossible. As many scholars have pointed out, the idea that all religions are true in their own way flies in the face of common sense.[2] All religions make exclusive truth-claims and prioritize their understanding of reality over against others. Religious pluralism, with its nuanced and sophisticated understanding of the Real, is no different. Ironically, the desire to create a universal religion for everyone only leads to the denial of all other truth-claims made by religious believers. How can Hinduism, with its claim to 330 million gods, be just as true as Theravada Buddhism, which has zero gods, or Judaism, which has only one?

Finally, from a Christian perspective, religious pluralism fails to acknowledge Jesus as Lord. To be sure, this is unproblematic for persons of other faiths, but for Christians who want to be true to their historic beliefs, Jesus must be seen not merely as one manifestation of an unknown higher deity we call the Real. Rather, Jesus made known his identity in history by walking among people and saying things like, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” and “I and the Father are one.”[3] His exclusive truth-claims, as we know, not only caused consternation and led to his crucifixion, but they were and continue to be fundamental to the Christian story. Despite its lack of Super Bowl glitz and glamour, it is this story, I would argue, that promises to end all protests and ultimately usher in real world peace.

Paul McClure

[1] John Hick, “Religious Pluralism.” Reprinted in Philosophy of Religion: Selected Readings. Ed by Michael Peterson, William Hasker, et al. (New York: Oxford UP, 2001), 565.

[2] For more resources, see Harold Netland’s Encountering Religious Pluralism, Stephen Prothero’s God Is Not One, Vinoth Ramachandra’s Faiths in Conflict, John Stackhouse’s No Other Gods Before Me, and Ravi Zacharias’ Jesus Among Other Gods.

[3] Italics added. John 14:6, 10:30 (NIV)

*Thanks also to Professor Ivan Satyavrata for his helpful lecture on religious pluralism.


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Categories : Tough Questions

Flourishing in a Pill

13 02 2012

In the 2011 film Limitless, Eddie Morra is a down on his luck author struggling with writer’s block, unmet deadlines, losing his girlfriend, and a generally miserable life.  He is virtually at rock bottom when he encounters an old acquaintance that makes him aware of an experimental drug called NZT-48, which supposedly allows humans to access 100% of the brain’s power, as opposed to the usual 20%.  Morra is initially skeptical, but, considering things can’t really get much worse for him, he takes the pill.

Much to his surprise, it works!  Morra is instantly able to achieve a focus and intensity that would have been previously unimaginable.  He finishes the book he had been struggling with for months in four days.  He is instantly able to solve problems and to see possibilities with unprecedented accuracy.  He uses his newfound (or spectacularly enhanced!) abilities to reinvent himself as rich, powerful, and all that he ever wanted to be.  He becomes, in short, a kind of superhuman who is able to do anything and everything well.

It’s an intriguing idea.  After all, who hasn’t, at some point, wished that the ideal person we wish we could be were attainable through simply swallowing a pill?  Who hasn’t wished that the struggle and strain of changing things we don’t like in our lives could be avoided?  Who hasn’t longed for their own abilities and skills to be quickly and painlessly enhanced—or for the existence of new ones entirely?  Who hasn’t wished that everything important they had ever learned or experienced could be instantly accessed and productively employed?

Peter Singer and Agata Sagan recently explored similar ideas in a New York Times piece called “Are We Ready for a ‘Morality’ Pill?”  If all human decision-making is reducible to chemical combinations in the brain, then why shouldn’t we just tweak the chemistry a bit here and there to produce more moral people?  Or, undertake a massive overhaul if necessary?   We already do this with antidepressants and other drugs, after all.  Why not with morality?  It would certainly solve a lot of problems, after all.  Who cares if we have to medicate people into behaving themselves if the end result is good?

Whether we are thinking about pills to give us superhuman abilities, as in Limitless, or pills to make us moral, as in Singer and Sagan’s article, questions about the nature and extent of human freedom instantly come into view.  Is human freedom real or just a pleasant illusion that we like to perpetuate?  If we are popping pills to manipulate our brains into doing what we want, is it still us that is acting?  In what sense?  Have we crossed some kind of a line when the good things that we want in life come via a chemical alteration of our brain states?  We intuitively feel like our freedom has somehow been violated, but why?

These are difficult questions, to be sure.  The lines are fuzzy and not easy to discern.  But however we resolve these questions, from a biblical perspective it is clear that human beings are more than just brain chemistry.  We are created by God to freely reflect God’s image (or not).  Meaningful human freedom is presupposed on virtually every page of Scripture.  From Joshua’s “Choose this day whom you will serve” (Joshua 24:15) to Jesus’ “Who do you say that I am?” (Mark 8:29), the exhortation (implicit or explicit) to choose where our allegiance lies, resounds throughout the biblical narrative.

While human freedom obviously depends upon and is exercised through brain chemistry, it cannot be reduced to this alone.  This does not do justice to our experience of freedom, our experience of moral striving, our experience of hard-won changes in our life, of skills and capacities deliberately cultivated and disciplined.  Most of us, if we are honest, think that if something is worth having it is worth pursuing and striving for.  If the kind of freedom that gives our lives meaning and accomplishment is an illusion, it is an illusion of the most necessary kind—an illusion we cannot live without.

And yet, ironically enough, the Bible also describes the kind of flourishing we seek as something that comes apart from endless human striving (moral or otherwise). In Jeremiah 31:33-34, the prophet says this to a group of weary exiles who are well acquainted with the fruits of poorly exercised freedom:

“This is the covenant I will make with the house of Israel
after that time,” declares the LORD.
“I will put my law in their minds
and write it on their hearts.
I will be their God,
and they will be my people.
No longer will they teach their neighbors,
or say to one another, ‘Know the LORD,’
because they will all know me,
from the least of them to the greatest,”
declares the LORD.
“For I will forgive their wickedness
and will remember their sins no more.”

 I will put my law in their minds and write it on their hearts.  Human flourishing is, ultimately, a gift of God.  It is a gift, however, that is given in concert with our own desires and efforts to align our desires and aspirations with what is good and right and true.  It is a gift that is given to those who seek to know God, who acknowledge their need of God, and who receive God’s gift of forgiveness.  It is, fundamentally, a gift that comes not via a pill but a relationship with our Creator.

Ryan Dueck


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Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

We are the same

10 02 2012

This is the third of three articles to encourage healthier dialogue between evangelical Christians and the homosexual community. As such, the purpose is neither to condemn nor excuse homosexuality, but to seek to find a “common ground” that we all share, in which to begin the conversation.

So often, it seems that Christians and homosexuals see each other as being entirely at opposition. While there are undoubtedly some major issues to work through, perhaps we should start with what we have in common. And there’s actually often a lot more similarities than we usually assume.

For many Christians and homosexuals, there was a terrific, horrific moment in your life. You had wallowed in confusion about who you really are. Then you realised that “who I am” had a name, and you embraced it. This seemed liberating, but it also was really scary. It meant you had to tell your friends that you were now one of “those people”. You knew your friends had all these assumptions about what “those people” are like, much of which were wrong, but they probably wouldn’t listen. You’d eventually lose some of your friends because of this.

Then you thought about your family. And it got even more scary.

See, it’s not just that being Christian or homosexual was something that you did every now or then. It was something that defined your lifestyle, and your identity. It affected your social life, your politics, and who you dated. And it wasn’t a “phase” (no matter how many of your friends or family tried to dismiss it as such). This was who you’re planning to be for the rest of your life.

In some cases, for Christians or homosexuals, you ended up having your family – brothers, sisters, even your mother or father – utterly reject you, because they couldn’t handle who you now were. Sometimes, they did something almost worse – awkward smiles at family gatherings, everyone trying to pretend there isn’t a gigantic elephant in the room.

Then, for Christians and homosexuals, there’s the sea of judgements that people around you subject you to. And they say horrible things. Sometimes, others like you, Christians or homosexuals, were beaten up, or even killed because of this. Part of you fears you might be next.

Sometimes, for Christians and homosexuals, the only people you feel safe to be around are others who like you. They understand you. Together, you feel much stronger than you do “out there” with everybody else.

See? We have more in common that perhaps you thought we did. I admit, sometimes the barriers and fears I’ve described have, for homosexuals, been created by aggressive Christians. But I might gently suggest, some Christians are starting to experience similar barriers and fears, because of aggressive homosexuals.

The other thing to realise is that Jesus actually experienced every single one of these things, too. He realised that He was not like everybody else. He was different. There was a name for Who He was – the Messiah. On one level, that was great, but it also came with some significant costs. It meant that many who He had called friends abandoned Him, even trying to kill Him (Luke 4:22-30). It meant that many in His own family – even His brothers and mother – thought He was crazy (Mark 3:21), tried to shut Him up (Mark 3:31-35) and ridiculed Him (John 7:3-5). It meant whole crowds of people rejected Him, and falsely accused Him of terrible things. Ultimately, the only thing that they could really “pin on Him” was His identity – Who He was. Then they killed Him for it.

But there are some differences between Him, and Christians or homosexuals. Firstly, while Jesus clearly understood the terrible costs His identity would bring, from His friends, His family, and wider society, He was virtually never afraid about those costs. He had a strength that none of us can fathom. Secondly, while He deeply valued spending time with those who had a similar view of His identity, He always had times for others. Always. And He never fell into the same false judgements that everybody else did. He saw them as they really are. And because He rose again, He still sees you as you really are.

Look, I’m not going to pretend that this article, or any of these articles, take away all the issues here. But hopefully, these articles can at least show some ways that we can approach these issues more effectively. Let’s come together, with Jesus somehow in our midst, and start the conversation afresh.

Matt Gray


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Categories : On Anything and Everything

The Christian Sodomy Epidemic

8 02 2012

This is the second of three articles to encourage healthier dialogue between evangelical Christians and the homosexual community. As such, the purpose is neither to condemn nor excuse homosexuality, but to seek to find a “common ground” that we all share, in which to begin the conversation.

There is a serious epidemic in Christian circles, that seems to often be left unnoticed. The Church is absolutely riddled with Sodomites.

            The term “Sodomite” comes from a story in the Bible. In Genesis 19, God sent three angels to investigate the towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, because He’d heard the townspeople were doing the wrong thing. God told His plan to the great hero Abraham in Genesis 18. Abraham had seen the three angels walking along, and immediately invited them to stay with him before they went to Sodom.

Upon arriving in Sodom, the angels tried to stay in the centre of the city (the equivalent of the local hotel), but were warned against it by an immigrant in Sodom, Abraham’s nephew, Lot. Lot suggested instead that they should stay at his place, behind locked doors. The reason for this was revealed when the townsmen banged on his door, demanding that he throw his guests out to the street, so they could have sex with them. This was the final straw for God. He saved Lot and his daughters, then destroyed the city.

What was the crime of the people in Sodom and Gomorrah? With our pre-installed title of “Sodomite”, and our peculiarly western fixation with sexuality, evangelicals often assume it was their homosexuality. But if we look at both the historical and textual context of the story (in other words, do what we evangelicals often pride ourselves on doing with the Bible), we might see their crime is closer to home.

In fact, it’s all about home. In ancient near eastern society, one of the strongest moral expectations was hospitality. The Sodomites obviously weren’t good hosts to the three visitors, and that is their biggest crime. That might sound strange, unless you’re a nomad who’s wandered around the near eastern desert. To not show hospitality, especially to strangers, is considered criminal in such a context, because it essentially condemns the person to death by dehydration, freezing, heatstroke, or starvation. This is made more clear by the good guys of this story, Abraham and Lot. They show remarkable hospitality to the three strangers, which only heightens the contrast between them and the Sodomites.

Where Sodom is mentioned elsewhere in the Bible, one verse (Jude 7) criticises their “sexual immorality” (though, admittedly, that could just as well be because they were rapists, rather than that they were gay). The other verses define Sodom’s sin in terms of hospitality (ie, Jesus in Matthew 11:23-24). In Ezekiel 16:49, God specifically says Sodom’s crime was that they “were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy.” So, Biblically, a Sodomite is more accurately defined as somebody who does not welcome others.

Hospitality does not mean that you can’t have standards and expectations – you don’t have to allow a guest to leave the fridge-door open. But you need to do the hard thing of finding ways of framing those standards in ways that still help guests – especially the vulnerable – to be made to feel welcome, and safe in your home.

In my previous article, I wrote about 1 Corinthians 6:9-10: “Neither homosexuals… nor the greedy, etc… will inherit the Kingdom of God.” But the very next verse says: “And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.”

This clearly suggests that the Corinthian church was made up of people who had been homosexual, or greedy, or whatever, when they started going there. The Corinthian Christians made them feel welcome, while also somehow finding ways to remain authentic to their belief. Eventually, they found a solution to the guests’ issues that meant the guests could become Christians themselves. The Solution was Jesus and the Spirit of God.

Sadly, some Christians today seem to be as inhospitable as the Sodomites were, especially to homosexuals, but also to other Christians who disagree with them on this issue. And, I might gently suggest, some in the homosexual community are in danger of really becoming Sodomites, by stereotyping Christians and refusing to join them in dialogue. Fortunately, though, many more of us are following the way of Abraham, Lot, and the Corinthians, and offering a refuge for all those who need it, and a space for friendly dialogue. We seek to follow the way of Jesus, Who promised, “I go to prepare a home for you…”(John 14:1-3)

Matt Gray


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