Another way to approach this issue is through my perennial dissatisfaction with the term “pro-life.” In my seminary ethics course, “pro-life” began striking me as an unhelpfully vague term: for those wedded more to natural law than a rigorously Biblical definition of categories, “life” can become an absolute value and, for example, anti-death-penalty a necessary companion to antiabortion. Better, I thought, to frame life issues through the prism of justice: that is, what are just or unjust reasons for taking a life?
Now, however, it seems to me “pro-life” issues can be best framed via a theology of the Cross. To be overly broad, people kill babies and old people because allowing them to live would impose what they perceive to be unbearable burdens upon themselves; in other words, choosing life for the baby or old person would mean a death to self, to one's own preferences and ambitions.
Today's "culture of death," then, might better be described as a "culture of death for other people so I might live my life to its fullest," the instantiation of which is the particular abortion or suicide. Suicide and euthanasia are two sides of the same coin: in the latter, death is chosen by loved ones who want the burden of care removed; in the former, death is often chosen in acquiescence to those loved one’s interests (expressed or perceived). In each of these instances, the opposing "pro-life" choice would be a choice to die to self. Someone would have to place upon oneself whatever burdens would be necessary to sustain what is at least an inconvenient, if not an extremely difficult, life. To be pro-life in practice is to be pro-one’s-own-death. In other words, it is to take up one's cross.
Beyond question, I am for life. Existentially, though, as a Christian, I feel I can only honestly be for life if I lay down my own life. I’m not pro-life; I’m pro-cross.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
A father's cruciform manifesto: 1
I’m not sure when or how it began. I once thought it started when I entered the pastorate some ten years ago, but it had to have been there earlier or I wouldn’t have accepted the particular call I did. For a long, long time, then, I’ve been wondering how exactly I am to take up my cross and follow my Lord. A few years back, I had to write a “philosophy of ministry” paper for a class I was taking, and I realized I conceived of pastoral work as filling up in my flesh what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ for the sake of his body, which is the Church (Colossians 1:24). The pastorate, then, was my cross. Except that, after a while, it became clear it wasn’t, not really, no matter how much I strive to imitate the humility of our Savior in my work. Simply put, there is too much of myself in it for the pastorate to be a death to myself.
For Mrs. Curmudgeon
An examination of Scriptural teaching on the topic of greeting one's fellow perambulators.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
On ambassadorial garb
For some time, an argument for liturgical garb, derived from 2 Corinthians 5:20, has been rattling around in my head. Back in the day, before John F. Kennedy ruined everything with his hatlessness and business suit, ambassadors used to dress quite spiffily, with sashes and cummerbunds and all variety of what-not to signify the nation which they represented. And that's to say nothing of the ancient world, when ceremonial national dress was simply the work uniform. Thankfully, there are some indications we are, as a culture, beginning to recover from the long national nightmare which began in the 1960s, and so one has hope for a renewal of sartorial sensibility as well.
Some confessional presbyterians have argued for the clerical robe during the worship service as a badge and sign of the office of Word and sacrament. I don't disagree with that, but, by itself, said argument only gets you to the notion of clerical garb, not what that garb should be. However, if the pastor is in fact an ambassador for Christ, he is a citizen and representative of Christ's heavenly kingdom. In terms of diplomatic protocol, then, he should on formal occasions (and what occasion is more formal than the called services of the Church?) wear the ceremonial garb of his native land, the country which has foundations (Hebrews 11:10, 13-16). In that country, the King and his people wear robes of fine linen, white and pure (Revelation 19:7-8, 13-14).
I credit ministers who wear a black robe with trying; that's better than the liturgical indifference which too many of my colleagues bear as a strange badge of pride. But those who wear an academic gown in the pulpit seem to me to have missed the point entirely: we represent the heavenly Kingdom, not the academy. (And the academy gets far too many shout-outs from the seminary-educated as it is without having their clothing add to the clamor, if one were to ask me.)
No, let us wear a white robe in the pulpit, of Genevan or some other appropriate cut. We ought wear white robes because we are ambassadors for Christ, pleading with all men to be reconciled to God.
Some confessional presbyterians have argued for the clerical robe during the worship service as a badge and sign of the office of Word and sacrament. I don't disagree with that, but, by itself, said argument only gets you to the notion of clerical garb, not what that garb should be. However, if the pastor is in fact an ambassador for Christ, he is a citizen and representative of Christ's heavenly kingdom. In terms of diplomatic protocol, then, he should on formal occasions (and what occasion is more formal than the called services of the Church?) wear the ceremonial garb of his native land, the country which has foundations (Hebrews 11:10, 13-16). In that country, the King and his people wear robes of fine linen, white and pure (Revelation 19:7-8, 13-14).
I credit ministers who wear a black robe with trying; that's better than the liturgical indifference which too many of my colleagues bear as a strange badge of pride. But those who wear an academic gown in the pulpit seem to me to have missed the point entirely: we represent the heavenly Kingdom, not the academy. (And the academy gets far too many shout-outs from the seminary-educated as it is without having their clothing add to the clamor, if one were to ask me.)
No, let us wear a white robe in the pulpit, of Genevan or some other appropriate cut. We ought wear white robes because we are ambassadors for Christ, pleading with all men to be reconciled to God.
A Love Supreme
In my mid-20s, I decided to get serious about jazz. My course of study, which I recommend to any neophyte, was to listen to everything Miles Davis ever recorded, in chronological order, and branch out from there. Sometime early on in my education, I bought a copy of John Coltrane's A Love Supreme, largely because I knew it is one of the all-time standard works. But at that stage in my development, I just didn't get it, and so set it aside.
It's been a few years; in fact, I counted up the t-shirts and realized I've been supporting Denver's jazz station, KUVO, for over ten years now. And now, just now, I'm beginning to get A Love Supreme. I still don't understand it, but it makes the effort and time worth it.
It's been a few years; in fact, I counted up the t-shirts and realized I've been supporting Denver's jazz station, KUVO, for over ten years now. And now, just now, I'm beginning to get A Love Supreme. I still don't understand it, but it makes the effort and time worth it.
A father's cruciform manifesto: thesis
From Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, page 196: “Do you think that your fathers are watching? That they weigh you in their ledgerbook? Against what?”
The Apologetics of Madison County: Being a Parody in Which the Existence of God and the Implications Thereof Are Discussed
Francesca Van Til saw a battered old Ford pick-up truck coming up the driveway from her kitchen window. She walked out onto the expansive porch of the farmhouse as the driver of the truck stepped out on the gravel drive. “Afternoon, ma’am”, he greeted her. “My name’s Robert Kincaid. I understand you have some covered bridges hereabout. I’m on assignment to photograph them for National Geographic.”
“They’re not too hard to find,” Francesca replied. “Just keep heading west down the county road here, then make a left on Route 102. That’ll take you to the stream that all the bridges are on.”
Robert Kincaid stepped up onto the porch. “Well, that seems a little complicated there. I don’t suppose that you’d care to join me in my truck named Harry and show me the way?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” she demurred. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, seeing as I’m a married woman.”
“Appropriate? Doesn’t that imply absolute standards of right and wrong, and therefore a personal God who is the final authority behind all such standards?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“But wouldn’t the existence of God necessitate our submission to him?” Robert Kincaid tugged on the suspenders he wore attached to his belted, faded blue jeans. “I guess this is just part of my last-of-the-cowboys way, but I have to believe that we each must be our own final authority. Relying on some sort of God is just a way to avoid responsibility for taking charge of one’s own life and surroundings.”
“Is it? The Bible teaches that God holds us responsible for our actions. He has created the world, and we, as his creatures, owe him honor and obedience. If he did not hold us accountable, then there would be no such thing as hell. Eternal punishment is, literally, the final evidence that we are responsible for our choices in life.”
“Now hold on. You’re not simply arguing for the existence of God. You’re presupposing that the Bible is true and reveals God’s character and will.”
“Certainly, but after all, the Bible is the basis for everything I know about God. Since I hold this to be true, how can argue in any other way? To do so would be to deny that truth and make myself a hypocrite.”
“All right, I see your point.” Robert Kincaid fumbled around in his shirt’s breast pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I supposed I’m used to it,” Francesca smiled. “Like all Presbyterian elders, my husband smokes a pipe.”
“Oh, you’re Presbyterians!” Robert Kincaid grimaced as he lit a cigarette. “No wonder you’re so dogmatic. But then how do you reconcile your Calvinism with the notion of man’s responsibility? If everything is predestined by God, how can he hold us accountable?”
“You’ve just lost me. A moment ago you were complaining because God is sovereign. Now you’re objecting because he holds us accountable. Does that mean you acknowledge God’s sovereign claim over our lives and are seeking to learn more about his character?”
“Of course not, since you haven’t yet proven the existence of God. We don’t need this antiquated concept of God, you and I. We are a breed apart; we create the world anew for ourselves.”
“Speak for yourself. I very much do need this antiquated concept of God.”
“Very well, I create the world anew for myself. With my camera, I do not just record objects, I manipulate light to impose my will on the landscape. I dominate it and make it my own.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. But are the landscapes and objects there before you arrive to photograph them?”
“Well, certainly. Barring natural disaster, I expect those covered bridges are sitting over the stream right now. What’s your point?”
“Simply that what you photograph has an objective existence which is not contingent on your own. While you may interpret the images of landscapes and covered bridges, you certainly do not create them. And if interpretation of images is the work you do, the question of presupposition must be dealt with. What determines the way in which you interpret images?”
“Why, I do. As I said earlier, I must be my own final authority. I am the peregrine, the falcon; I am every ship that ever sailed to sea.”
“That’s nice. So are you saying that no external reality dictates the form of your interpretations?”
“Exactly.”
“But what about the objects you interpret with your photographs? You have already admitted that they have an objective existence independent from your own. If they did not exist, you would have nothing to interpret. Thus, your interpretations must be dependent on an external reality. You cannot be your own final authority, since of necessity you work with forms over which you have no ultimate control. This is not true merely of your photographs, but of your entire life.”
“How can that be? You’re just playing word games.”
“Hardly. I use language as a tool, just as you use photography. But my point is that you exist in a world which you did not create. You react to it and interpret it, which is of course a valid response. You are not, however, its creator.”
“Who is? God?”
“Certainly. Unless you hold to radical subjectivism, you are left with the fact that you live in a world which you did not create. What is that world’s origin?”
“The world’s origin need not have been a personal God. Given sufficient time, the universe could have evolved to its current state by chance processes. Therefore, there are no absolute standards of morality which would constrain you from joining my in my truck named Harry. For example, I prefer eating only vegetables because that makes me feel cleaner, but I don’t think that’s a rule which everyone should have to follow. There is no God, so everything is relative.”
“But is everything personal?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve just posited that the world arose through blind chance. Fine. But what are the consequences of that? If everything is the result of chance, can anything have meaning?”
“Of course. It has the meaning which I assign to it.”
“But can that meaning have any ultimate significance? If standards are purely relative, as with your preference for vegetables, then they can be binding on no other person.”
“I’m glad you’re beginning to see this my way. So how about that ride?”
“You’ve just betrayed your presupposition again.”
“Huh? How?”
“Since you’ve arrived here, you’ve been attempting to convince me of your point of view. Apparently, you think your foundational beliefs are binding on everyone, not just yourself. You are denying the practical consequences of your proposition that everything is relative. If that were truly the case, then not only would your attempts to persuade me be meaningless, but even your self-created value system would be without significance. It’s only a facade which helps you avoid the futility of living in a random universe, of being an insignificant speck amidst a swirl of chaos.”
Robert Kincaid walked over to the porch rail. Leaning against it, he gazed out at the Iowa corn fields as the golden stalks bent gently in the breeze. Finally, he said, “So in order for personal beliefs to have any real meaning, they must be based upon an absolute, Creator God?”
“Exactly.”
Robert Kincaid dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out. Seeing Francesca’s frown, he brushed its remains off the porch with the toe of his boot. “From what you’re saying, I have a choice. I can accept that life is ultimately without meaning and therefore futile. However, that seems like a very difficult idea to live with. On the other hand, I could accept that I and the world have been created by a personal God, but that would mean he has the authority to set standards by which I must live. I’m not exactly comfortable with submitting my will to God. I would much prefer to be my own authority.”
Francesca sat on the wide porch swing. “I can understand your reaction. It’s common to all of humanity. In their natural state, no one wants to submit to God. However, you’ve already realized that becoming your own authority is a futile illusion. Consider also that if God did indeed create the world and you, then living in submission to his will is the only way to fulfill one’s purpose in the world. He created you to glorify himself. Thus, in striving to glorify him, you will become what you were created to be. Your life will have real meaning and significance. By no longer attempting to live for yourself, you will find real purpose.”
“But how can I do that?” Robert Kincaid asked with a choked voice. “I’ve spent my entire life worshiping myself and rebelling against God. How can I get right with him? How could someone as rebellious as me glorify God?”
Francesca smiled joyfully. “Because of what Jesus did for us on the cross, we sinners can be made right with God. I can see my husband coming back from the fields now. May we pray with you to ask God’s forgiveness?”
Robert Kincaid swallowed hard and nodded. Behind him, Francesca’s husband walked up the drive, his frame silhouetted by the late afternoon sun setting over the cornfields of Madison County.
“They’re not too hard to find,” Francesca replied. “Just keep heading west down the county road here, then make a left on Route 102. That’ll take you to the stream that all the bridges are on.”
Robert Kincaid stepped up onto the porch. “Well, that seems a little complicated there. I don’t suppose that you’d care to join me in my truck named Harry and show me the way?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” she demurred. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, seeing as I’m a married woman.”
“Appropriate? Doesn’t that imply absolute standards of right and wrong, and therefore a personal God who is the final authority behind all such standards?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“But wouldn’t the existence of God necessitate our submission to him?” Robert Kincaid tugged on the suspenders he wore attached to his belted, faded blue jeans. “I guess this is just part of my last-of-the-cowboys way, but I have to believe that we each must be our own final authority. Relying on some sort of God is just a way to avoid responsibility for taking charge of one’s own life and surroundings.”
“Is it? The Bible teaches that God holds us responsible for our actions. He has created the world, and we, as his creatures, owe him honor and obedience. If he did not hold us accountable, then there would be no such thing as hell. Eternal punishment is, literally, the final evidence that we are responsible for our choices in life.”
“Now hold on. You’re not simply arguing for the existence of God. You’re presupposing that the Bible is true and reveals God’s character and will.”
“Certainly, but after all, the Bible is the basis for everything I know about God. Since I hold this to be true, how can argue in any other way? To do so would be to deny that truth and make myself a hypocrite.”
“All right, I see your point.” Robert Kincaid fumbled around in his shirt’s breast pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I supposed I’m used to it,” Francesca smiled. “Like all Presbyterian elders, my husband smokes a pipe.”
“Oh, you’re Presbyterians!” Robert Kincaid grimaced as he lit a cigarette. “No wonder you’re so dogmatic. But then how do you reconcile your Calvinism with the notion of man’s responsibility? If everything is predestined by God, how can he hold us accountable?”
“You’ve just lost me. A moment ago you were complaining because God is sovereign. Now you’re objecting because he holds us accountable. Does that mean you acknowledge God’s sovereign claim over our lives and are seeking to learn more about his character?”
“Of course not, since you haven’t yet proven the existence of God. We don’t need this antiquated concept of God, you and I. We are a breed apart; we create the world anew for ourselves.”
“Speak for yourself. I very much do need this antiquated concept of God.”
“Very well, I create the world anew for myself. With my camera, I do not just record objects, I manipulate light to impose my will on the landscape. I dominate it and make it my own.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. But are the landscapes and objects there before you arrive to photograph them?”
“Well, certainly. Barring natural disaster, I expect those covered bridges are sitting over the stream right now. What’s your point?”
“Simply that what you photograph has an objective existence which is not contingent on your own. While you may interpret the images of landscapes and covered bridges, you certainly do not create them. And if interpretation of images is the work you do, the question of presupposition must be dealt with. What determines the way in which you interpret images?”
“Why, I do. As I said earlier, I must be my own final authority. I am the peregrine, the falcon; I am every ship that ever sailed to sea.”
“That’s nice. So are you saying that no external reality dictates the form of your interpretations?”
“Exactly.”
“But what about the objects you interpret with your photographs? You have already admitted that they have an objective existence independent from your own. If they did not exist, you would have nothing to interpret. Thus, your interpretations must be dependent on an external reality. You cannot be your own final authority, since of necessity you work with forms over which you have no ultimate control. This is not true merely of your photographs, but of your entire life.”
“How can that be? You’re just playing word games.”
“Hardly. I use language as a tool, just as you use photography. But my point is that you exist in a world which you did not create. You react to it and interpret it, which is of course a valid response. You are not, however, its creator.”
“Who is? God?”
“Certainly. Unless you hold to radical subjectivism, you are left with the fact that you live in a world which you did not create. What is that world’s origin?”
“The world’s origin need not have been a personal God. Given sufficient time, the universe could have evolved to its current state by chance processes. Therefore, there are no absolute standards of morality which would constrain you from joining my in my truck named Harry. For example, I prefer eating only vegetables because that makes me feel cleaner, but I don’t think that’s a rule which everyone should have to follow. There is no God, so everything is relative.”
“But is everything personal?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve just posited that the world arose through blind chance. Fine. But what are the consequences of that? If everything is the result of chance, can anything have meaning?”
“Of course. It has the meaning which I assign to it.”
“But can that meaning have any ultimate significance? If standards are purely relative, as with your preference for vegetables, then they can be binding on no other person.”
“I’m glad you’re beginning to see this my way. So how about that ride?”
“You’ve just betrayed your presupposition again.”
“Huh? How?”
“Since you’ve arrived here, you’ve been attempting to convince me of your point of view. Apparently, you think your foundational beliefs are binding on everyone, not just yourself. You are denying the practical consequences of your proposition that everything is relative. If that were truly the case, then not only would your attempts to persuade me be meaningless, but even your self-created value system would be without significance. It’s only a facade which helps you avoid the futility of living in a random universe, of being an insignificant speck amidst a swirl of chaos.”
Robert Kincaid walked over to the porch rail. Leaning against it, he gazed out at the Iowa corn fields as the golden stalks bent gently in the breeze. Finally, he said, “So in order for personal beliefs to have any real meaning, they must be based upon an absolute, Creator God?”
“Exactly.”
Robert Kincaid dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out. Seeing Francesca’s frown, he brushed its remains off the porch with the toe of his boot. “From what you’re saying, I have a choice. I can accept that life is ultimately without meaning and therefore futile. However, that seems like a very difficult idea to live with. On the other hand, I could accept that I and the world have been created by a personal God, but that would mean he has the authority to set standards by which I must live. I’m not exactly comfortable with submitting my will to God. I would much prefer to be my own authority.”
Francesca sat on the wide porch swing. “I can understand your reaction. It’s common to all of humanity. In their natural state, no one wants to submit to God. However, you’ve already realized that becoming your own authority is a futile illusion. Consider also that if God did indeed create the world and you, then living in submission to his will is the only way to fulfill one’s purpose in the world. He created you to glorify himself. Thus, in striving to glorify him, you will become what you were created to be. Your life will have real meaning and significance. By no longer attempting to live for yourself, you will find real purpose.”
“But how can I do that?” Robert Kincaid asked with a choked voice. “I’ve spent my entire life worshiping myself and rebelling against God. How can I get right with him? How could someone as rebellious as me glorify God?”
Francesca smiled joyfully. “Because of what Jesus did for us on the cross, we sinners can be made right with God. I can see my husband coming back from the fields now. May we pray with you to ask God’s forgiveness?”
Robert Kincaid swallowed hard and nodded. Behind him, Francesca’s husband walked up the drive, his frame silhouetted by the late afternoon sun setting over the cornfields of Madison County.
Contempt leads to inspiration
First Things is celebrating its 20th anniversary with an all-retrospective issue, publishing a large number of "snapshots" and a few essays in full. Obviously, they've picked the best of their best, so it's been quite a fun read. Still, the standout is Alan Jacobs' review article, "On the Works of Kahlil Gibran," written in a derisive parody of The Prophet himself. It's a hoot, and it reminds me that while love often produces great literature, so can contempt.
All of which is a self-serving set-up for my next post. My hatred for The Bridges of Madison County enabled me, during my first year of seminary, to produce what I still think is my best apologetic writing yet.
All of which is a self-serving set-up for my next post. My hatred for The Bridges of Madison County enabled me, during my first year of seminary, to produce what I still think is my best apologetic writing yet.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
A peculiar embassy
Although Ma and Pa Curmudgeon were both U.S. Foreign Service officers, talk of embassies takes me not back to my childhood and the gruntwork of American diplomatic relations, but to my own calling as a pastor. After all, we are ambassadors of Christ, pleading with all men to be reconciled to God (2 Corinthians 5:20).
And therein lies the strangeness of our embassy. As any child of a Foreign Service officer could tell you, an embassy is an outpost of the home nation on foreign soil; in theory, it is a extension of the nation itself. However, its sovereignty extends only as far as its walls, outside of which is the foreign land. Any ambassador who wandered the streets of his host nation recruiting its citizens to come over the wall and become citizens of our country wouldn't hold his post for very long.
But that is exactly what we do. In Gilead, Marilynne Robinson's narrator speaks of the privilege we ministers have of blessing people, and how odd it is that the literature on pastoral work speaks so little of this. That is true, and it is odd. We are ambassadors from the heavenly Kingdom, and we do not merely speak for our King, we have the special duty of bringing them out of this world and into the next through the imposition of our hands and the pouring of water. It is a rare and peculiar embassy, and we would do well to spend more time meditating upon and being astounded by this privilege.
And therein lies the strangeness of our embassy. As any child of a Foreign Service officer could tell you, an embassy is an outpost of the home nation on foreign soil; in theory, it is a extension of the nation itself. However, its sovereignty extends only as far as its walls, outside of which is the foreign land. Any ambassador who wandered the streets of his host nation recruiting its citizens to come over the wall and become citizens of our country wouldn't hold his post for very long.
But that is exactly what we do. In Gilead, Marilynne Robinson's narrator speaks of the privilege we ministers have of blessing people, and how odd it is that the literature on pastoral work speaks so little of this. That is true, and it is odd. We are ambassadors from the heavenly Kingdom, and we do not merely speak for our King, we have the special duty of bringing them out of this world and into the next through the imposition of our hands and the pouring of water. It is a rare and peculiar embassy, and we would do well to spend more time meditating upon and being astounded by this privilege.
Politics and the English Language
In his guide for submissions, Gregory Reynolds, editor of the OPC's Ordained Servant, links to George Orwell's "Politics and the English Language." It's a fun read, at first because it reminds me how much I really, really love English. But then Orwell's profound and serious anger, his justifiable outrage at all forms of totalitarianism and fascism, draws out the great danger of vaguely constructed writing.
"Like soft snow." Amazing.
Read it, and be a better writer.
Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, "I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so." Probably, therefore, he will say something like this:While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be inclined to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable concomitant of transitional periods, and that the rigors which the Russian people have been called upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of concrete achievement.The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism. A mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering up all the details. The great enemy of clear language is insincerity.
"Like soft snow." Amazing.
Read it, and be a better writer.
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