A father's cruciform manifesto: 7

Another anecdote in evidence, perhaps less trivial because it involves actual suffering. A couple years ago we switched health insurers and I began seeing an osteopath who helped me get sufficiently on top of the causes of my chronic pain that I’ve been able to get by without the prescription painkillers I used to take. But then social services placed that newborn in our home, and, with two other and not much older children in the house, I stopped sleeping much. I can get away with six or less hours of sleep a night for a while, but after a couple months, my back ached and my knees started complaining big time. That already had me concocting ibuprofen-Tylenol-Aleve cocktails. Then, just shy of the three-month mark, the old repetitive-motion injury in my wrists showed back up. The drugs may have been what knocked my stomach out of alignment, or maybe it was the green chili I had for breakfast. At any rate, I stopped eating and slept a great deal for two days, which, along with the fact the baby is sleeping more soundly, put my pain levels back in abeyance.

Now, this is pretty much standard fare for middle-aged parents, but the kicker is that my investment in this child in sleepless nights and extraordinarily distracting levels of pain could very well come to naught. The baby’s mother seems to have lost interest in her, but her social worker tells us a new father has been identified through DNA testing; it’s once again (this happens to us a lot) possible that this baby (of whom we cannot help thinking as ours, no matter how desperately we try not to) might end up living with genetic kin rather than our family. If she does, she will never remember us and, very likely, never even know who we are.

Obviously, then, foster parenting is our cross.

The amazing thing is that the foster parents I’ve met don’t seem to have noticed. Every time I listen to other foster parents, their focus is always on the kids, on what can be done for them. We go to support group meetings about once a month, and there are no martyrs in that room. If anything, these people feel privileged to be able to do something, anything, to help children who have been been done gross, unspeakable injustice by this fallen world.

And I can’t believe I’m saying this, since I’ve known myself to be a whining, moaning, egocentric pathetic excuse for a human being for just about as long as I’ve been self-aware, but even with all the very, very real pain, my wife and I are neither heroes nor martyrs. We are parents.

Calvin's Institutes, Battles edition: pages 15-16

Protestants have long observed that the Reformers are properly called such because they believed they were merely trying to restore the Church to her ancient beliefs and practices. Therefore, they labored to demonstrate there was nothing new in their teaching. Accordingly, Calvin's prefatory address to Francis I is in large part a recitation of ancient support for reformation arguments. However, he begins with what I think is a much more profound assertion.

"First, by calling it 'new' they do great wrong to God, whose Sacred Word does not deserve to be accused of novelty. ...That it has lain long unknown and buried is the fault of man's impiety." Here, Calvin is saying that if a doctrine or practice can be demonstrated to be genuinely Biblical, it cannot be called "new," even if NO precedent can be found in Church history. If Calvin is correct (and I believe he is), we must hold our confessional positions sincerely but lightly, always ready to correct them by the light of God's Word.

A father's cruciform manifesto: 6

It occurred to me this morning my cruciform take on parenting did not come out of nowhere. My father was a U.S. Foreign Service officer until the time came for him to take another posting overseas. Though, with his decades of experience and having last served as a consul, I’m sure he would have moved up the ranks, he chose to take early retirement. This was because he was up for what is called a “hardship post,” that is, service in a country neither entirely stable nor safe for U.S. citizens. He didn’t want to expose my younger sisters, still in the home, to danger, nor did he like the other option of sending them to boarding schools and breaking up the family prematurely. For the sake of his family, he gave up his career, and, incidentally, never brought up this fact to me or my sisters. I’m not sure he even gave the choice much thought.

While we’re at it, the fact we had a family in the first place was because my mother accepted being forced to resign her own commission as a Foreign Service officer to marry my father. What I learned from my parents’ example, then, was that one’s family and (potential!) children are far more important than oneself or one’s own ambitions. My sisters and I are not my parents’ legacy: they gave up their legacies and achievements that we might have and mark out lives of our own.

And in the wonderful irony of the Cross, their legacy is that I find myself setting aside whatever I might have accomplished during these years: time which could have been spent finishing this essay and writing more was spent with my son’s Cub Scout den. I do this so my children, my natural-born, foster, and perhaps adopted children, can have a father dedicated to them and they can take that fact entirely for granted.

We must decrease that they might increase.

Calvin's Institutes, Battles edition: page 11

Speaking of the Protestants, Calvin writes "Now, the very stronghold of their defense was not to disavow this very doctrine but to uphold it as true. Here even the right to whisper is cut off." In other words, the doctrine has greater credibility because its adherents are persuaded a right apprehension of it should lead to its being embraced.

Of course, fanatics and lunatics often hold a similar persuasion. Nonetheless, it's interesting to see how impressed Calvin is by the pious zeal of his coreligionists.

Calvin's Institutes, Battles edition: Introduction

The introduction is pretty obviously written in the late 1950s: it unashamedly judges Calvin from a modern perspective. The scholarship is refreshingly honest, however, in that it does not judge Calvin as though he himself were a modern.

A father's cruciform manifesto: 5

The more I think about it, the more self-evident it appears to me Christian parenting must be conducted in the way of the Cross. But it can’t be all that self-evident, or we wouldn’t have amongst us the Vision Forum. For the happily unaware, the Vision Forum is an organization much-beloved by a certain segment of the home-schooling community, particularly those interested in a reformed soteriology but not a presbyterian ecclesiology. Or much of an ecclesiology at all, as, so far as I can tell from their catalogue (which I didn’t ask for, but pastors get sent an awful lot of stuff in the mails whether they like it or not), there seems an unarticulated but clearly evident conviction the nuclear family is all- and self-sufficient.

From their website: "Our name — The Vision Forum — points to our desire that the Lord would use this work to be a forum for communicating a vision of victory to Christian families." I'm seriously concerned about the nature of the victory the Vision Forum has in mind. Victory over sin would be a good thing, of course, but flipping through their catalogue, the emphasis seems to be on victory over the society and culture around us. And the way to beat the snot out of said society is to turn one's children into culture warriors. So much for living quietly, minding one's own affairs (1 Thessalonians 4:11).

The presence of the Vision Forum catalogue in Christian homes gives me, as a pastor and a father, heartburn. There's something unnervingly worldly about the Vision Forum's anti-world vision. Again and again, one gets the impression each Christian family should be building a legacy which will endure for generations to come; not only that, they should be actively engaged in transforming the culture and reshaping it according to their liking. In other words, they are about building a name and a city for themselves and claiming a country in this world, during this age: a country which they hope, and even believe, will endure.

But this present age is passing away.

And as for me and my house, we are also seeking a country of our own, but not that country from which we came out. Rather, we desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore we are not ashamed of the Cross of Christ; for the God who became despised and nothing has called us to be likewise despised and nothing. He has invited us to live as aliens and strangers in this world. He has not invited us to build a city here because he has prepared a city with foundations for us.

Calvin's Institutes, Battles edition

I've begun working through John Calvin's Institutes of the Christian Religion again for a reading group at Park Hill Presbyterian Church. We're using the translation prepared by Ford Lewis Battles for the Library of Christian Classics. I must say, it's a delight to read: nice large print, paper of appropriate thickness (print doesn't bleed through, but each of the two volumes can be comfortably held in one hand or fit easily into backpack or briefcase), and footnotes at the bottom of the page they way they were meant to be (a creation ordinance, don't you know).

The content's not bad, either.

Matthew 27

Peter Leithart has a number of interesting observations on Matthew 27 over on his blog, particularly regarding the women who served Jesus in his death.

A father's cruciform manifesto: 4

I submit in evidence a trivial anecdote (although being a universally experienced anecdote, perhaps not so trivial). The other night, while my wife was at a Bible study, I tried to watch Lost, but the two year-old insisted on yelling, running around, and breaking the blinds while he was supposed to be asleep. What I was thinking, of course, was "Can't I catch a break? Can't I have a moment for myself, to do what I want to do?"

No, of course. I am a parent.

A father's cruciform manifesto: 3

So here’s how I found my cross, only to discover I had already taken it up.

My wife and I are certified foster parents in Adams County, Colorado. The social services department has labeled us "foster-to-adopt;" this is because while we hope to adopt the baby who was placed in our home in April 2009, we are officially her foster parents unless the parental rights of her birth parents are terminated by the courts.

At a recent meeting, a county attorney observed that people like us used to be labeled "legal risk parents” to help judges understand that children placed in our homes were not guaranteed to be taken away from their birth parents and be adopted away, an impression which some had taken from that moniker “foster-to-adopt.” "Legal risk" means that, by law, we take the (very real) chance of welcoming a baby into our home only, after some period of time, to have her returned to birth parents who have proven their competency to the courts.

For obvious reasons, "foster-to-adopt" sounds much better for recruiting purposes than "legal risk." And yet, there's something profoundly right about the latter term. Parenting is a risky business. It is the constant, and often realized, risk of loving a person far more than that person will ever love you in return. It is the risk of a life of sacrifice without reward. To be the kind of parent whose children will not be removed by social services is to risk the loss of one's self, of one's identity, for the sake of one's children.

To be a parent is to be willing to lay down your life for your children, and, in the infinite sacrifices and concessions by which we surrender our individual identities and are forever labeled by them (and by those around us) as, finally and ultimately, their parent, is to actually lose that life. To be a parent (or at least to be a parent who barely approximates deserving to be called a parent) is to take up your cross and, in imitation of your Savior, to crucify self and have that choice overlooked and ignored. After all, only Joseph of Arimathea seemed to have noticed a burial was necessary.

To be a parent is to be at risk. To be a Christian parent is to take up one’s cross.

Daylight Satan's Time

2010 will go down as the year Daylight Savings Time really began to worry me.

Of course, much of my alienation from the mainstream of political discourse in these United States is rooted in the fact I am a single-issue voter, and that one issue is opposition to DST. This year's great leap forward hit as hard as any I can remember not only because Big Government deprived me of an hour's sleep, but also because Foster Baby woke up crying twice that night, and Thing One and Thing Two behaved riotously for a couple hours past bedtime Sunday evening. To be clear, however, my opposition to DST is principled, not merely a sleep-deprived spirit of vengeance.

For starters, the whole ritual is annoying: it's a gigantic pain in the hindquarters to locate and change all the clocks and watches in one's life. And at what gain? Any energy saved by having more daylight during the evening hours is offset by concomitantly increased heating and cooling costs. In addition, studies have shown an increase in traffic accidents the Monday mornings following a "time change" (as though time could be changed).

Rather than accept the given order of things, though, Big Government has to tinker with reality, certain it can come up with something better, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. This arrogance finds it clearest expression in the choice of day on which to implement the change: Sunday. At the very least, one might hope the civil magistrate would respect another institution ordained by God, but instead it chooses to make it that much harder for people to show up on time for services.

(Why is it we often see members arrive an hour late in the spring, but never an hour early in the fall?)

In addition, I think there's a rather serious theological point to be made, one which emerged as I was reading Genesis 1 last year. God created the sun, moon, and stars to order the years and seasons: that is, the progress of time. Time is not, therefore, a social construct which we can change by common consent; it is part of the created order. I think it ironic, but not accidental, that from autumn to spring we are in "standard time." Daylight Savings Time is, by definition, deviation from the standard and, accordingly, a perversion.

And this is why I'm worried. I understand my obsession with this topic is, or at least ought be, a cranky preoccupation. But for the life of me, it daily appears a more and more serious matter, and I think everyone should not only pay attention, but object strenuously. I know I sound like a crank, like the kind of person who tediously holds forth on the merits of the gold standard and the moral hazards of fiat currency, but I can't stop myself. 2010 may be the year in which I slip past an ironic posture in to full-fledged, absolutely sincere curmudgeonry.

And, William Jennings Bryan notwithstanding, I find I do have a few things to say about the gold standard...

NPR showcases stupid for your convenience

I've been listening to a Fresh Air interview with New Testament "scholar" Bart Ehrmann. It seems Ehrmann's method of reading the Gospels is to interpret any views of Jesus which are not identical as necessarily contradictory, as opposed to complementary.

"Scholar." Doesn't that title imply one has gone to school?

A father's cruciform manifesto: 2

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.