Spirituality for the Rest of Us

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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Tags: faith, fun, Gospel of John, Jesus, joy, laughter, morality, wedding at Cana, wine
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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Tags: Buber, capture, God, I-It, I-Thou, image, photo, wonder, worship
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

[1] http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Bono#Rolling_Stone_interview_.282005.29

^{^[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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Tags: Augustine, Bono, C S Lewis, Confessions, faith, God, Music, religion
Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

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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Tags: choice, faith, flourishing, freedom, Limitless, morality, Peter Singer
Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

The Epic Story, Part II

3 02 2012

In my previous post, I suggested that in order to make sense of our little and everyday stories, we need a view from above. Like a cosmic director, God has revealed the broad contours of an ongoing script, and invites us to make sense of our lives from His perspective.[1] Scenes one and two are past: God designed us for good, but we’ve each rebelled and sought a script we prefer, and in the process have been damaged by evil. Now we turn to scene three for a paradoxical twist as God sorts out the mess we’ve made. …

Scene #3: Restored for Better. The Director could have fired the cast for a do-over. But instead, He entered the story through His Son. When? The Roman Empire, Israel, when BC became AD. How? Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus uniquely claimed to be God in the flesh, the long awaited and predicted Saviour (Messiah/Christ) of the world. He gave us a model of how life was meant to be lived, under his Father’s rule in a Kingdom of peace and love. He called us to switch scripts, and align with God’s form to be forgiven and free. As the perfect character, Jesus stood in for our failures. He took the blame, and absorbed evil in love, crucified to cover our sin. He took the worst the world could throw at him, but after it all, rose from the dead—a real historical event worth checking out. This demonstrated that death was defeated, and the story would go on. …

Scene #4: Sent Together to Heal. The heart of the human problem is the problem of the human heart. When we admit our failure to God, turning from our way to trust the Director’s solution in Jesus, then a new act begins. God starts the process of healing us from the inside out—revealing the part only I can play—so we can go together in the power of His Spirit to help heal a hurting world. We partner with God to restore relationships and a broken planet. No waiting until the story’s happy ending, we have a mission right now to give the world a preview of the play’s final scene. Until we exit the stage, our role is to follow Jesus by absorbing evil in love, and reconnecting everyone with a good God who designed us to be free.

Scene #5: God Sets Everything Right. For all our best efforts, we’re still broken. By ourselves, the world will never fully heal. The Director is patient, and wants everyone to freely choose the role for which we were made. But, the day is coming when Jesus will return, judge the world, and set everything right. We’ve all fallen short, so we need God’s mercy. As the curtain closes, every actor is brought back to give account for their actions. If you’ve accepted God’s forgiveness, your real story is just starting: a restored earth with no hate, pollution, poverty, or war. God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—will be the centre of it all, and we’ll be free in this love. But what should God do with those of us who reject Him? Everything good, true, and beautiful comes from God, so apart from Him, all that’s left is Hell. Hell is when we exclude ourselves from the Director’s plans for a do-over.

You, in short, are an actor in an epic story. But the Director has given you unprecedented freedom to choose your own adventure. All our stories, however, hinge on the lead role. So how will you respond to Jesus? If you see your story in this script, and God has grabbed your heart, then tell Him. Life can begin again right now …

“God, you designed me for good, but I’m made my own way. I’ve rejected you, hurt others, and damaged your world. I’m sorry. Thanks for entering the story in Jesus, to restore me for better. Forgive me for my sins, and fill me with your Spirit. I want to follow you now, bringing healing where there’s hurt. Help me love like you do, as a preview of how the whole world will be when you set everything right. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

Dave Benson

[1] See http://issuu.com/nikanddaveabroad/docs/epic_story, http://thebigstory.org.au/ and http://issuu.com/nikanddaveabroad/docs/big_story for a graphical take on The Epic Story.

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Tags: actor, God, gospel, Jesus, particular, salvation, script, Story, universal
Categories : On Anything and Everything, Spirituality for the Rest of Us, The Heart of Faith

The Epic Story, Part I

1 02 2012

At Wondering Fair, we love the little story. We understand a universal God through the gritty particulars of animal instincts and awaiting adoptions, of breastfeeding babies and ‘Black Friday’ blues. Through the prism of our everyday experiences, we sense thin places where the eternal breaks into the everyday. The Divine Score resonates through the humility of crotchets and quavers, and we pause long enough to hear the music. Perhaps we may even recognise the Creator playing in the least expected places.

But not necessarily. Like a sonata, we may add note upon note of immanent experiences, and never understand the transcendent song. Our apprehensions from below may be beautiful, but we require revelation from above to take ethereal sounds from the unknown God and return them heavenward in a reverent cantata of praise. To switch metaphors and put it simply, our little stories only make sense in light of the Big Story. So as this new year is taking form, and that we may not miss the forest for the trees, I thought it timely to tell the old, old story once again. But let’s begin with you: what kind of story are you in?[1]

Ever feel like an actor without a script? From the day you entered the world with a cry, you sensed that you’re part of something bigger: an epic story of sorts. But what kind of story are you in? A comedy or a tragedy? A meandering Indie flick? Or a sweeping drama like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, with a battle to fight, and where love wins? How to tell? Stories abound: I’m a cosmic accident; I’m just an animal; I’m a reincarnated lost soul; I’m the experiment of a disinterested deity. Which, if any, is the true story?

What if there is a story that just fit? A story that embraces your own story, and everyday experience? A bigger story that makes sense of how we got here, of life’s meaning, the heart of our problem, and the solution to it all? What if there is a Director who isn’t silent, who has told us stuff we could never work out for ourselves, even about what happens when you shut your eyes for the last time?

We all live according to the story we think we’re in. So take a chance and step into the following epic: a story with five scenes.[2] It’s a basic summary of another story, The Bible, which Christians believe is the Director’s take on how all our stories hang together. Let’s start in the present though.

Look around. Describe the world. What do you see? Good stuff? Like friends, footy, flowers, mountains, concerns, travel, Thai food, and so on. (Is there another planet where you’d rather be?!) But is that all? Flick on the news. What about the not so good stuff? Like addiction, depression, divorce, death, rape, corruption, war, global warming, poverty, pollution, and on it goes. Do you ever get the sense that something’s gone wrong? That this is not the way it’s supposed to be?

Why is that? We’re thirsty for a perfect world, but what can satisfy? Maybe it was good, or will be good, but right now it’s messed up. Let’s enter the Director’s Epic Story, right at the beginning, and it’ll start to make sense. …

Scene #1: Designed for Good. The epic starts with God. Drop the images of a distant deity wilding lightning bolts. This story’s Director is passionate and relational, an artist who paints an Oasis and plants us there. And in the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. Why? Well, He made us to love God, love each other, and cultivate the world as good gardeners should. (Imagine connection with your Creator, society in harmony without selfishness, and work which you enjoy that helps the world thrive.) This is the form in which we find freedom. But just as love is only real when it isn’t forced, the Director gives us all a choice. And clearly we’re not in Eden anymore.

Scene #2: Damaged by Evil. “Who’s God to tell me what to do?” So we, the actors, rebelled against the Director and tried writing our own script in a form we preferred. We’ve eaten the forbidden fruit, and tried to play God. Meaning? We’ve ignored and despised God, abused each other, and vandalized the planet. That’s sin—missing the mark for which we were made. We’ve turned inward, and act like the universe revolves around us. And we’ve built our lives around good stuff that can never satisfy like God: relationships, sex, status, sport … our symptoms differ, but the syndrome’s the same. The result? The world’s damaged, our relationships are divided, and our identity (our heart) is a mess. We’re broken, and we break. Worse, we’re to blame. God is loving and just, so what’s a passionate Director to do?

For that, you’ll have to tune in on Friday The Epic Story Part II.

Dave Benson

[1] See http://issuu.com/nikanddaveabroad/docs/epic_story, http://thebigstory.org.au/ and http://issuu.com/nikanddaveabroad/docs/big_story for a graphical take on The Epic Story.

[2] Adapted, with permission, from James Choung, True Story: A Christianity Worth Believing In (IVP, 2008).

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Tags: actor, Bible, big picture, gospel, Jesus, particular, script, Story, universal
Categories : On Anything and Everything, Spirituality for the Rest of Us, The Heart of Faith

Is Doubt the Enemy of Faith?

25 01 2012

Doubt gets a bad rap. We live in a world where we are not supposed to doubt, it is unhealthy—bad. Doubts, though, are like confrontations, which also have a bad rap. However, it is in confrontations that change can happen. Sometimes my wife needs to confront me, and at that point there is a back and forth until eventually one of us realizes our error (or often we both do) and we change. Today—we are so afraid of confrontations—we don’t have them. In a Facebook generation we just unfriend, ignore or avoid—but then we are depriving ourselves and others of possibly growing.

Doubts are the same way. We often are afraid of them—or we don’t deal with them—but then we never grow. In fact they may actually help. How do I know? Look at the famous, but often misunderstood biblical story of Doubting Thomas often used to illustrate how it is wrong to doubt. It can be found at the end of the Book of John.

What does Jesus do when he approaches Thomas here? Two things: First, he calls him out for doubting clear evidence—the other apostles eyewitness accounts. Most people highlight this aspect of the story. However, the second thing Jesus does is actually gives into the demands of Thomas! Thomas demands to see Jesus, his pierced hands and side, and then Jesus—after rebuking Thomas, actually gives him exactly what he demands. Why would he do that?

Jesus is trying to keep Thomas, as well as the listener from falling into one of two camps prevalent in ancient and modern culture. The first camp can be called the blind faith camp. This group of people thinks doubts are the enemy of faith. That blind faith camp never questions their faith, never ask hard questions, and never seeks answers for when doubts rise up. They say that the definition of faith, is you don’t know, so stop trying to ask questions and just believe. There is almost a fear if that if you do ask questions then you will lose your faith.

The second camp out there is what I call the persistent cynicism camp. These are individuals who try to poke holes in everything and mock all truth statements, and undermine all claims of purpose. I know these people exist because I was one of them. Whose to say what is true? What is true for you is true for you, but what is true for me is true for me. In some respects these people are committed to the belief that there is no belief—there is nothing else out there.

Through his actions, Jesus wants to avoid both extremes. Notice he rebukes Thomas not for doubting in general—but for doubting clear evidence from his friends. In other words, he was in the
persistent cynicism camp. He was not seeking or trying to find answers, he made a blanket statement and he was not going to budge. However, on the other hand—Jesus actually gives into his demands, and validates and even answers Thomas’ demands. So it seems, from a fresh reading of the passage, doubts are not necessarily the enemy of faith, only if they stay in a persistent state of cynicism.

In fact, they may actually boost a faith/trust paradigm. How does Thomas respond after Jesus shows him the evidence? All the gospels have Jesus trying to show others who he really is, but the one person who confesses Jesus’ full nature is Thomas! No other human being had a higher view of Jesus than Thomas. In verse 28 he says, “My Lord and My God.” This is a personal expression of intimate relationship that is accomplished through processing doubts. So use them, search them, and build off them.

Michael Keller

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Tags: Christianity, doubt, Doubting Thomas, faith, Jesus, religion, skepticism
Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

Man Seeks (Straightforward) God

23 01 2012

Over the last decade or so, the conversation about God and religion in the public square has been dominated by the extremes. Whether angry atheists convinced that religion “poisons everything” or defensive and dogmatic believers who condemn atheists in equally strong language, the impression often given is that there are two groups of fundamentally different people out there who can do little besides shout at each other across the huge and unbridgeable chasm between them.

But the picture sketched above does not tell the whole story. In between these extremes exist more moderate atheists and believers, as well as a growing demographic of people referred to as the “nones”—a name derived from checking the “None” box on surveys asking for one’s religious preference. Simply put, Nones aren’t sure about God and religion. They’re not, by in large, atheists (93% claim to believe in God or a higher power), nor are they adherents of any particular religious tradition. They’re searching, seeking, inquiring. They’re open to God, but not in traditional forms and expressions.

Former NPR correspondent Eric Weiner speaks for the Nones in his new book Man Seeks God: My Flirtations with the Divine. In a recent article, Weiner expresses his exasperation with the “true believers” and the “angry atheists” that have dominated (North) American religious discourse over the last decade or so. Like many of us, Weiner sees the world as just a bit more grey than the black and whites offered by these two groups, and is open to a much wider range of questions and answers than they are.

According to Weiner, Nones

don’t get hung up on whether a religion is “true” or not, and instead subscribe to William James’s maxim that “truth is what works.” If a certain spiritual practice makes us better people—more loving, less angry—then it is necessarily good, and by extension “true.”

Nones are, apparently, characterized by an extremely pragmatic approach to issues of God and religion. The fundamental question, according to Weiner, is not, “What is the good, the true, and the beautiful?” but “what works for me?” Of course, there are numerous unstated assumptions about the nature of the good and beautiful embedded in Weiner’s assertion that if a spiritual practice makes us better people it is “true,” but this is, nonetheless, an undeniably human-centred approach to questions of God and religion.

A little later, Weiner makes this even clearer:

We need a Steve Jobs of religion. Someone (or ones) who can invent not a new religion but, rather, a new way of being religious. Like Mr. Jobs’s creations, this new way would be straightforward and unencumbered and absolutely intuitive. Most important, it would be highly interactive. I imagine a religious space that celebrates doubt, encourages experimentation and allows one to utter the word God without embarrassment. A religious operating system for the Nones among us. And for all of us.

“Straightforward,” “unencumbered,” and “absolutely intuitive.” These are interesting adjectives to place alongside of the quest of faith, to be sure. Historically, the pursuit of God has been one of great joy, self-discovery, and peace, to be sure, but also one of self-denial, struggle, and even periods of great doubt and suffering, as countless people of faith down through the ages would attest. A prominent image of the path to God is one of ascent—an image evoking the long and arduous process of climbing a mountain. There is exertion and pain and struggle on the path to the top. Indeed, Jesus himself said that “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23). Evidently, faith isn’t supposed to always be easy.

We have just made our way through the Christmas season. If the Christian story is to be believed, the light of the world entered the human predicament in a most unusual, unexpected, uncomfortable, and possibly even embarrassing manner. Jesus’ arrival on the human scene did not nicely align itself with what human beings thought ought to be the case, with how they thought divinity ought to look, with the way in which they imagined a rescue operation ought to be undertaken. It still doesn’t, for many of us. We have all quite likely imagined other, more “straightforward” ways for God to save than the way represented by the birth and career of Jesus.

But perhaps the truth isn’t always comfortable or unencumbered or straightforward or intuitive. Perhaps, in addition to our capacity to interrogate reality, the truth asks questions of us. Perhaps it is we who must conform to what is real and true and good and beautiful, rather than adapting and adjusting these concepts and behaviours to fit our preferences. Indeed, if truth really is something that exists outside and independent of human minds and hearts, then perhaps the first question to ask—for Nones and for all the rest of us—is not, “what works?” or “what seems to make the most sense to me?” or “what do I prefer?” but “what is true and how do I align myself with it?”

The Christian conviction is that the struggle of faith—with all of the wrestling and sorting through our embarrassment and confusion and discomfort as we align ourselves with what is true—is worth it. And that the view from the summit of the mountain is spectacular.

Ryan Dueck

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Tags: atheism, Eric Weiner, faith, journey, polarization, religion, spirituality, Steve Jobs
Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us

Hide and Seek

4 01 2012

What is it with hide-and-seek? Spanning thirteen years, three nephews and six nieces, there must be something addictive about this game. Just this weekend my five and seven year old nieces came down to stay. As my wife likes to say, Lizzie and Abbey are as cute as a bug’s eye! So when they ask Uncle Dave if he wants to play, I can’t resist. And the first game of choice, without fail, is hide-and-seek.

Regardless of culture, I’m sure you’ve played it. The concept is simple. One person (usually the most mature) is deemed ‘it’, and the others run and hide. Then you find them. Got the idea?! But don’t be fooled, there are more mysterious elements at play. For instance, I’m expected to count out loud. They want to know I’m coming. Granted, they always look for a dark, obscure place to hide—behind the door, or under the blankets. But if I take too long, they’ll always supply hints: a knock on the wall, a little voice ironically crying out “We’re not in here!” Abbey in particular has a mischievous sense of humour. Her favourite version is when I describe my plans in advance, saying which room I’ll explore next: “I know, Abbey’s hiding … in … HERE!” At which point I’ll lunge into the laundry, all the while knowing she’s two doors down in the guestroom. By the time I go to where I always knew she was, she’s bursting at the seams with a big smile, waiting to be grabbed almost unawares. Much tickling and laughter ensues. Even as I’m ‘it’, there’s reciprocity: it’s less about hiding than being found. My nieces need to know they’re wanted, desirable, and worth seeking. The anticipation only adds to the excitement.

When did you last play hide-and-seek? At some point it stops. Usually when it shifts from play to competition. Like Monty Python’s skit in The Flying Circus. We find two forty-year old men engaged in the Olympic Championship of hide-and-seek. The time to beat was set by Don Roberts from Hinckley in Leicestershire: 11 years, 2 months, 26 days, 9 hours, 3 minutes, 27.4 seconds, found in a sweetshop in Kilmarnock. In the second leg, Francisco Huron the Paraguayan is the seeker. Standing together in Trafalgar Square, Francisco covers his eyes: “Uno, dos, tres, quattro.” Meanwhile, Don grabs a cab, hops a flight, hires a bike, and hides behind a pillar in a castle deep in the heart of Sardinia! Cut back to Francisco: “Neuvecian no nuevetay ocho, nuevecientas nuevente ye nueve, mil [998,999,1000] …. Ready or not, here I come!” Six years later and Francisco is highly agitated and hunting in Madagascar, officially described as ‘cold’. Cut to the last day of the final, 11 years on and sporting an impressive beard. The commentator analyses the action: “The sands of time are running out for this delving dago, this saviour of seek, perspicacious Paraguayan. … It’s beginning to look like another gold for Britain.”

You get the picture. Hide-and-seek only works if you want to be found.

There’s something deeply human, and deeply Biblical, in all this. Jesus “the saviour of seek” loved to tell stories of lost-and-found. And the technique differs depending on the hider. Take Luke 15 with three parables of seeking. The sheep is hiding by accident; it went astray. So the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine in safety and risks his neck to recover the one. His familiar voice echoed across the hills, “Ready or not, here I come.” And as dumb as the sheep was, I’m sure it didn’t mind being slung over his shoulders and carried back to safety. Same goes with the silver coin. Nine coins in safe-keeping, but one is missing. It’s hiding, in the dark. So the owner lights a lamp, scours the whole house, and in the very last place you’d expect, there it is. She picks up the coin, and calls a party! Laughter ensues.

Yet the tone changes for the lost child. (Or is it a recalcitrant young adult?) This one doesn’t want to be found. He tells dad to get lost, hiring a cab and hopping a plane to hide where he’ll never be uncovered: living wild in a distant country. The dad counts out loud, standing on the balcony, ever watchful. He’s already humbled himself by absorbing the son’s rejection in love. And he seems aware of his boy’s movements—perhaps he sent messengers in advance to describe his plans of reconciliation. He passionately pursues, calling his name. But without reciprocity, the play is dead.

As Robert Farrar Capon notes, the strategy of right-handed direct power at this point won’t do. It’s effective to pick up a sheep or a coin, but may only harden his boy’s heart. Instead, the Father extends with the left-handed subtle power of love.[1] He shines a light and calls his name, scouring the whole world all the while totally aware of where the rebel is hiding. And when the time is right—stomach grumbling and loneliness overwhelming—his child knocks on the wall and ironically cries “I’m not in here.” The Father runs to his son and embraces him, almost unawares. Laughter is loud, and the party runs long.

More deceptively resourceful than Don Roberts from Hinckley, we are each prone to hide. The Bible tells this story of a God who seeks. And when we grow too old to play and don’t want to be found, he shifts technique to a “rhapsody of indirection”—left-handed power condescending in love. At Christmas we remembered how light came into the world, even as we hid in darkness for fear of exposure. But if we desire to “live by the truth” then we’ll reciprocate: we’ll come into the light (John 3:19-21). Only, of course, if we want to be found.

So, when’s the last time you played hide-and-seek?

Dave Benson

[1] Kingdom, Grace, and Judgment (Eerdmans, 2002), 15-25.

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Tags: found, hide-and-seek, light, lost, love, monty python, parable, play, Prodigal Son
Categories : On Anything and Everything, Spirituality for the Rest of Us, The Heart of Faith

An Young Father

2 01 2012

Oscar Wilde’s first and only novel narrates the chilling story of a man called Dorian Gray. [1] Dorian was handsome, splendidly handsome (not quite like Jeremy Kidwell or Dave Benson but getting close), to such an extent that a painter depicts a portrait of Dorian. When Dorian sees his own beauty on display, he expresses the wish to remain young, and to woo the world with his handsomeness forever.

Sometime later Dorian gets to know a girl, a Shakespearean actress, and proposes to her. She is ecstatic – what a gorgeous groom! – but when Dorian finds out that she lost her acting skills because of her consuming passion for Dorian, he rejects her, and she commits suicide. When Dorian arrives home, there is a change in his portrait – his face now displays a cynical smile – and Dorian realizes that his wish came true: from now on his portrait will wrinkle and age, and he will maintain the eternal freshness of youth.

Free from the visual consequences of time, Dorian succumbs to a life of pleasure and vices, and at one point kills the man who painted his portrait. His portrait grows ever uglier, grimmer, more disgusting, like an unsettling mirror of his soul. At one point Dorian is so scared of his disfigured face hovering over the living room, and of the hopeless odor of his life, that he decides to kill his portrait, in a last attempt to find some form of redemption. But when he stabs the portrait with a knife, Wilde narrates that the servants of the house hear a cry, and when they arrive, they see the portrait back in its original form, and the body of an old man on the floor with a knife stuck in his chest, wrinkled, dreadful, deformed.

It is a chilling story, yet Wilde makes us see graphically a curious observation: sin ages us. At every vice Dorian experimented, his portrait grew older and uglier. He saw his acts result in a sunken face, withered hair, eyes screaming with dread. His sin aged him, like it ages every one of us, weakening our minds, darkening our spirits, turning us in on ourselves. Sin makes us bitter and cynical, and I think that’s why we feel so old, even those of us who are quite young.

Yet, if that is the case, well, it may be that our Father is younger than we. G. K. Chesterton observed once how children like to play the same games over and other: you throw a girl into the air, and she asks, “Do it again!” You throw her another time, and she begs, “Do it again!” You throw her again still and she shouts, “Do it again!. So what about God, who created galaxy after galaxy, who did not tire of creating cell after cell or leaf after leaf? “It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun;” inferred Chesterton, “and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon… It may be that he has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” [2]

I’ve always imagined God as an elderly man, weakened by the endless seasons of eternity. Yet he may be younger than we think; vigorous, fresh, spirited. We may worry to approach a cranky senior yet find a presence of joy instead, we may we muster a serious prayer yet be interrupted by jokes – “finally, my dear Lord…”- “Hold on, what did the duck say to Vladimir Putin?”. The hours are longer on his clock, and his memories may stretch way back, yet his heart is younger than ours. We mature and wise up as we approach him, but we are refreshed and enlivened too, hearing not the sigh of a face tired of seeing us come in repentance one more time, but the vigor of a young father who shouts, “Yes, do it again!”

René Breuel

[1] Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray and Three Stories, (New York: Tribeca Books, 2010).

[2] G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (Vancouver: Regent College Publishing, 2007), 54.