The Inquisition: Sin

The other day I had the opportunity to sit down with a friend with a different belief than my own. We chatted over Chinese food and moved onto beer, discussing the nature of life, the universe, and everything—which naturally led to the subject of God. In that situation, specifically, the Christian belief thereof. As the night progressed the subject remained abstract and philosophical in nature, and eventually I found myself on the receiving end of some very tough questions concerning Sin and Old Testament ethics; i.e. where Israel got its idea of a moral code from. Tired, I did my best to give a genuine and reasonable answer, and ultimately assured him that I would be thinking long since on the subjects raised that night. I did and I am.

Even as I write this, I'm still convincing myself that it's a good idea to approach the matter of sin, and Sin itself, this early on. Largely I comfort myself with the reality that this personal inquisition is merely intended to meet the satisfaction of my own belief; I'm not trying to prove this with acute perfection to any standard other than my own. Still, I do hope, as I continue to think on the matter, to propose a perspective of Sin somewhat unique—not that I intend to contradict the traditional doctrine of Sin, but I fancy it to be held as a clerical term when I do not believe it to be as such; we think Sin to be exclusively subjective to religion, and I believe this is true, but that isn't to say there is no sin apart from religious doctrine. (Note: sin and Sin will be differentiated momentarily.)

Before I get to Sin, however, I want to clarify a cardinal virtue of my perspective that is important to understand how I view sin. Religion is a type of World View; that is, a lens by which we view the world. Sort of like going to the optometrist and sitting in the seat where you're being asked, "Which is clearer: A, or B?" The optometrist flips lenses back and forth and relies on your ability to distinguish the clearer of the two—a strange idea, if you think about it, for how precisely do we actually know what the 'clearer' view is? One may argue that we know it by the feel of the shape of things and reasoning thereafter, which is a fine idea. So that is to say we have an idea of reality, but we long for the clarity by which to view it and make sense of it—and that is the purpose of a World View. Without one we are near-sighted, for we can only comprehend the immediate and find anything beyond the tip of our own fingers blurry and confusing. A World View, therefore, must answer life's four basic philosophical questions coherently: origin, meaning, morality, and destiny; where do we come from? why are we here? how ought we conduct ourselves (if at all)? and where are we going? Christianity is a World View, as are Buddhism, Atheism, Hinduism, Nihilism, and Taoism. Like staring through the lenses, there is a lens which produces a true clarity of reality; it's not merely important to have a lens, as some would argue, but that this lens produces a coherent view of reality. The reason I mention this, as it pertains to Sin, is truly to express that Sin is an element of reality and must therefore make sense; I intend not to explain something into existence, but to explain something already existent—an important distinction and a cardinal virtue of mine.

In my family it has never been important for shoes to be taken off at the door, but I have been to many homes where that was part of the house rules. One walks in the door, glances at the ground, notes the shoes, and kicks off their present pair in observed propriety. Socially this is considered polite, and most often even if it wasn't necessary a home owner would appreciate such a gesture. Let's say, however, that I were to go to my friend's house where they do this and ignore the rules: I walk in the house, my friend kindly informs me of the rule, and I ignore her and walk right on to the carpet. Now she's annoyed with me for my rudeness, and rightfully so. After a moment of standing on the carpet, I stare at her and see her annoyed expression; I walk off the carpet, kick off my shoes, and declare, "There." Chances are my friend isn't going to suddenly correct her expression to a smile, and wander into the living room to sit down as if nothing had happened. Albeit my shoes are off and the rule is therefore satisfied, so what's the problem? In a word, the issue is the relationship, and something did happen when I blatantly chose to disobey her. The rule here is entirely subjective and could have been anything, and the matter goes deeper than general social propriety that we ought respect the rules of another home; one could point out that the issue of the shoes didn't create the problem, but rather brought the problem to light—something wrong was brought to the surface, something not good, and it acts as a barrier, a wall in our relationship. Again, the issue is not the broken rule, it's the relationship.

Here a word is popularly used to describe this sensation of self, and it's a particularly simple word, 'hurt'; that is, in that situation I would have hurt my friend. Odd, really, as she is physically well, and emotionally there was no such abuse. Even psychology becomes a bit muddled here, as one may come from a life of terrible abuse from one's parent, receive some terrible wounds, and ultimately overcome said abuse and become psychologically well again—which is important: the person may be well again, and truly so in every measurable way—but the relationship will never be the same again. Back to my friend, it is entirely possible that I have not wounded my friend psychologically or otherwise, but it hurt, and the important question is why. It is an incredible thing, if it is true, that a person should on some level grieve the relationship itself.

By this point I shall apply the words "sin" and "Sin" to the situation. Please follow the definition as I'm providing and intending them, and try to refrain from immediately denouncing the subject matter based on my use of vocabulary. Disagreement is welcome, but please disagree with a step of the process and not the conclusion in spite of the process of thinking.

For me to walk into a place which belongs to my friend and disobey her rules, that is sin as a verb. Truly, I would have sinned against my friend, for I caused greater division in our friendship. That division itself and the division in me—for the sin came from somewhere—is, capitalized, Sin, the noun. If I may, then, it is important to recall that the issue in the home was not the shoes, it was the broken relationship; nor was—as we so satirically remark upon—the issue in The Garden of The Fruit stolen from the tree, it was the broken relationship between Man and God. Likewise (and this is risky of me to say, I know) neither is Hell the issue of fire or the lack of pearly gates, it is the separation of Man and God on account of the already present division. I do not say this, however, even to suddenly attempt and prove Christianity! I do not! But merely to clarify that it is the same division between Man to Man that is addressed Man to God. This is important: Even if I were not a Christian, I would still admit to Sin on these terms! For there is division; I have seen it, caused it, and received it. There may be a group together under one house with a father, mother, and children, but they may yet be the furthest thing from a family on account of some unseen division; observed in their conduct and experienced in their hearts. Christianity takes this but a step further, and says, "Yes, there is a division in the hearts of men and women, but there is also a divide in the heart of Man; indeed in the very soul." And sin, it is vital to realize, is always between two people—a person may beat and severely psychologically or otherwise wound an animal, but the sin was not against the animal (however there was Sin); in addition, there is not great tragedy or wrongness between two animals fighting, but there is a tragedy and wrongness when Man goes to war. I shall, as pertains to such creatures, lose to animal lovers and zoologists, but I would merely concede sin, then, to be between two creatures; suffice it to say, it takes two: persons, families, teams, or nations. I will conclude my thoughts, as pertains to psychology with a quote from Dr. Hobart Mower, one time professor at Harvard and Yale and president of the American Psychological Association:

"For several decades we psychologists looked upon the whole matter of sin and moral accountability as a great incubus and acclaimed our liberation from it as epoch making. But at length we have discovered that to be free in this sense, that is, to have the excuse of being sick rather than sinful, is to court the danger of also becoming lost. This danger is, I believe, betokened by the widespread interest in existentialism, which we are presently witnessing. In becoming amoral, ethically neutral and free, we have cut the very roots of our being, lost our deepest sense of selfhood and identity, and with neurotics, themselves, we find ourselves asking, “Who am I, what is my deepest destiny, what does living mean?”

I want to conclude this with the consequence of Sin, in broad strokes. Entire books have been written on the subject, both secular and religious, and one of the greatest and most spoken questions in university classrooms today is on the origin and nature of evil—which is, if I may, the space within the divide. It is vitally important, in this subject, to consider where Dr. Hobart Mower expresses courting the danger of becoming lost. Perhaps this sound melodramatic, but indeed it is not. I should be forever lost in my relationship with my friend if I were to forever neglect the divide within the relationship itself; it is not like Columbus getting lost and discovering America, one does not accidentally resolve a broken relationship—it takes great intention, reality, and, in a word, forgiveness; that is, in order to fill a hole in the ground one must acknowledge it, accept it, and fill it. So many at this point get hung up on the offense itself. We often deny Sin, for it is a messy business, and insist that the problem lays entirely with the shoes, or disrespect, or disobedience.

In the Bible there is the Gospel according to the Apostle Luke, and in that book is one of the greatest stories I've ever encountered that sums up the reality of Sin. In the story there are two sons of a good father. One day the younger son decides he would like his inheritance immediately; either for his father to drop dead now, or give it to him atypically. At this point, culturally, one expects to hear the intervention of the older son, but he remains conspicuous by his silence. The father, however, loves his sons and divides the inheritance between them. Both have extremely dishonored the father, and the younger one therefore resolves to leave home. Again, culturally, it is likely here that the community performed a special ceremony here and broke jars of bitter herbs and spices as the son left to signify that he can never come back. So the son is gone, and lives in extravagance for a time—not necessarily wickedly, but ostentatiously. Finally, having squandered his wealth, the youngest finds himself working with pigs (the lowest of cultural jobs) and so hungry he craves what they're eating. At this point the son, in the Greek, comes to himself; much like waking up or sobering up from being drunk, and becomes aware of his own situation. He reasons that even his father's servants don't live so terribly, and he will therefore go home, say he's sorry, and ask to be a hired servant—as to eventually buy himself back. The son goes home. At this point if it is true, as it likely was, that the ceremony of exile was exercised, then in order to get back into the village the son would have to go between two lines of all the men of the village who would attempt to stone him as he ran through, but he had clearly resolved on the matter. While the son was crossing the distance, however, the father sees him and runs out to him. In order to get to his son quickly, the father must run, and to do so he would have lifted his dress—which was dishonorable for an old man to expose his ankles—but the father clearly felt it was worth it. Upon reaching his son he put his robe on him, kissed him passionately (in such a way as between equals), and welcomed him home. At this point the son, deeply moved, confessed, "‘Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son." And he left it at that. (Luke 15:11-32)

There is more to the story, and I believe it stirs the heart of the Christian and non-Christian alike; anyone who has ever been truly hurt. But I want to end the story there to acknowledge a powerful truth: the son in the story had previously resolved to be asked a servant in order to pay his father back, but when it came down to the passionate forgiveness of his father, no such request emerged. He realized at that point that the problem was not the lost money, but the broken relationship; that he had sinned against his father. It is, I believe, direly important that we acknowledge the presence of Sin in our relationships and within ourselves. From there it is an important question to search as to where Sin came from, and to call the problem for what it is—the issue of actions, thoughts, emotions, and even evil itself are not the roots, but the leaves; for "the problem at the heart of humanity is the problem of the human heart." Sin is real, let us accept this.

The Inquisition: Logos

In my post on the subject of faith, I talk about the definition of the word faith and that ultimately I believe it pertains to all of life; and not merely religion. I won't go into all that again, for it'd be redundant, but a while later a friend of mine shared some of his objections to my conclusions concerning faith—especially where I talk about faith being something we put even in science. He shared his own definition of faith: that faith is unexamined, blind, and heeds only to its own course in spite of evidence and, especially, evidence to the contrary. With this definition he went on to point out that my claims fall apart as pertains to atheism. As not to remove the context, he then went on to share with me how faith relates to him (i.e., how he does not need it in his philosophies), that religion is unnatural, absurd, and, socially and otherwise, destructive; he then shared an Old Testament example which he feels is ridiculous, and finally summarizes that religion does carry some intrinsic truth of humanity, but ultimately that religion and ritual are no way of forming an organic thought.

I must say that when I concluded my reading of his response I agreed almost entirely with him. So I do not regard what he said as stupid in any way, but rather very honest and intelligent. He began with his own definition of faith, and from there showed how such faith would be wholly destructive within the religions that adopted such faith. The question then raises, is that really the sort of faith which all religions are based off of? I believe it's a bit cynical of a definition, and a generalization, really: like asserting that all children are 'needy', and adding that to be 'needy' means being pathetic and inhuman (due to a lack of independence). It's difficult to argue the idea since children are needy, but does that really mean they're pathetic and inhuman? Some would say yes. I'm reluctant even to give that example as I think it could be too distracting, so I'll move onto my main thought and hope my train of thought is followed.

In the book of John (fourth book within the New Testament of the Bible) one finds a rather curious start: "In the beginning was the Word." It goes on to explain how this is God, but I don't actually want to focus on that. I want to simply consider the final word within the verse—'Word'—and what that means. To understand this one must first realize that the New Testament is written in Greek, and what we read in English is actually a translation of this. Years ago, back when words meant more, this phrase made a bit more sense, but even then it was somewhat confusing. The Greek word for 'Word' comes from the Greek word Logos—which was far more meaningful for the Greeks than to us. (The word logic receives its root from this word.)I have heard it said that a better contemporary translation of this verse would be, "In the beginning was the definition." So it wasn't that in the beginning, before space and time, lingered some method of communication; rather that before all such anything was the very thing which defined: sort of like saying that before there was a wooden rocking horse there was the idea (which Christian's believe to have been within the Carpenter's mind). That's by no means a perfect example, but what the Greeks were trying to get across in this word is a difficult but powerful concept that even they, the ancient philosophers, couldn't quite understand and therefore used a single word to contain; much like the words infinity or universe.

As I thought about my friend's objections, I realized that there was absolutely no way I could refute him on his own terms: there was no where to go: no possible direction the conversation could progress because we were talking about a subject using the same words, but entirely different definitions. There was no Logos—no definition we were agreeing on—so how could I reply when, by his own definition, he was correct?

I am realizing more and more as time goes on how incredibly important it is to realize that words are not an end in themselves, but a means by which to communicate. This statement may seem unnecessary, but I will explain what I mean. I speak English, and presently I am in a country which speaks Tamil (locally) and Hindi (nationally). So when I go up to someone on the street and ask them how they are in English, they stare at me and usually mutter a few uncertain words in their own language. It isn't that I had no meaning behind my words, and in fact if they understood me it would have shaped the beginning of a conversation, but as the words I shared were meaningless to them, the whole message was lost. It goes both ways. The exact same result occurs when they start talking to me in Tamil: I stare at them for a moment, then give them that clueless grin I have had months to perfect. What's happening is that we're both saying words which are quite meaningful to us, but which the other person has not agreed on the definition of. This is quite obvious as relates to entirely different languages, but becomes less obvious (and therefore less assumed) within a single language; but it is just as prevalent and often more confusing: in India we assume to know nothing of what is being said, but in America we assume to understand almost all words—especially those we've heard the most. A simple example would be the word 'cool': "That's cool," we say. Americans understand per use and context, that what's really being said is "I like that." If we use this word around someone that only learned English in the classroom, then they would most likely find themselves confused by the use of the term 'cool'; their mind would try and figure how or why the temperature of the situation is cool, and may make some sort of conclusion which satisfies them.

I'll give another example, more close to my point. Let's say I were to read a piece of old American literature, such as Mark Twain or Emily Dickinson. Throughout the book I noticed a number of characters describing themselves as 'gay'. By the end of the book I might suppose that nearly every character, accept the more miserable ones, were all homosexual. By a single word, I would have effectively misunderstood most characters and figured them to be something they weren't. Most of us, however, remember that traditionally the word 'gay' meant 'happy'; so when someone in an old television show would sit up in the morning, stretch and exclaim, "I feel gay today," they weren't joyfully remarking the disposition of their sexual preference for that day; they were expressing a feeling of happiness. This is that's called an equivocal word—a word without a singular, univocal meaning, wherein the word itself (sound; pronunciation) does not alter, but the definition does. Now the assumption, within this example, would be that if I were confused about the word and someone corrected me, that I would then say something like, "Ohh! Now I get it! That makes a lot more sense!" But what if someone told me and I were to retort that the author was wrong and I am right: either their characters are homosexual, or they were incorrect in the use of the word. Now at times the latter possibility may be correct and the author truly did misuse a word, but the question then arises: 'What's more important? That the story is understood, or that the infallible diction of the reader is established?' More often than not, as well, it's not so much that the word was used incorrectly, but that the use by modern definition would be incorrect.

One philosopher I appreciate greatly, Dr. Ravi Zacharias, remarked at a university presentation that it's easy for philosophers to become "doodlers with words." My own father, in fact, helps me quite a bit by letting me know when I begin to "wax on philosophical." I know what he means. He's saying that I'm doodling with words and not actually getting anywhere, or else getting there painfully. I very much appreciate this, and have realized that the modern notion of a philosopher is one that says too much and means too little (which is also believed, often jovially, for most politicians). After much thought, the reason I believe philosophers do this is because before we doodled with words, we doodled with definitions. It's not too uncommon for me to be listening to some philosophical debate, and begin rolling my eyes as I hear one or two grown men refusing to understand what the other is trying to say: they're much more interested in how they're saying it and that, by their own definition, their words are incorrect. I found myself in this horrid context—wherein you finally realize that nothing you can say is correct, because the very words you say won't be accepted—and try to catch myself from doing this to others. These days one can use certain expletives as every form of a word (noun, adjective, verb, etc...); love ice cream, people, mountains and a movie with equal distancing and passion; and argue as to whether or not truth is true. As we put it, it's a 'word game': At times we learn new languages in order to understand other cultures, and other times we refuse to understand our own by refute of word use.

Recently I read the book Miracles by the famous twentieth-century philosopher C.S. Lewis. In the beginning of the second chapter he begins with a definition: "I use the word Miracle to mean an interference with Nature by supernatural power." This is all right and well, but while going through the chapter I realized that he relies heavily on his definition, and even states in a note that it is a definition which most theologians would not use but he chose it based on the context of his readers. If one were to read the chapter and miss that definition, then the entire chapter would be incredibly easy to debunk: the word wouldn't fit the context and he would be seen as contradicting himself. On the other hand, what if, like the old American novel, the reader simply refused to accept the definition of the word, and read the chapter based on their own 'more correct' definition? One might then ask the reader why they're even reading the book, as they clearly assume to know more on the subject than anyone else, but that would be a bit harsh. I should rather like to point out to the reader that just because one accepts a word for a context, does not mean they have effectively compromised the whole of their philosophy by choosing to understand what someone means by a word. To sum up, words are but vessels of definition, they are not the definition themselves.

So what of my friend as he considered faith? Well, though I would not use the word as he did, I appreciated that he gave me a definition by which to understand his thoughts. Indeed, if when I used the word faith I meant something blind and frankly stupid, I would be as far from it as possibl as well. So if he merely wanted to inform me that we ought to avoid such faith, I would agree with him wholeheartedly. But, and not to pick on my friend, I do not believe when we say such things we are merely speaking on our own behalf, for he was informing me that faith according to all religions is blind and unexamined. Perhaps he did not mean this, and so I shall move onto a more generic reference. I have heard that if by a single line of reasoning we felt that we could debunk an entire religion, we have likely not understood it. Indeed I am not nearly so intelligent as to assume that I have accumulative knowledge of every religion in order to make such a claim, and I understand that what my friend was really saying was that ultimately religion led to such blind faith. I have limited knowledge of all religions, and as I know Christianity best I will at least provide a short apologetic on its behalf. Please understand, however, that I am not trying to begin a debate, as much as I am attempting to create the pretext for even a conversation.

According to the Bible—considered the ultimate reference to Christians—in chapter eleven of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament, faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (NAS) Or in another translation, "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (KJV) It's important to understand that the latter part—talking about 'things not seen'—is not a description of 'blind faith.' It is actually much more literal: it's a Greek term referring to the literal sensory: evidence not being limited to what we immediately can detect with our five sense. This is sensible. If it were not then I would not be able to talk about the heat of fire without first placing my hand in it as to assure myself that it is still quite hot. I attempted to explain this within my post concerning faith itself, and will thus leave its elaboration therein. But I challenge all such biblical critics to consider whether or not they're considering the Bible on the coherence of its own definitions as relate to reality, or if they're merely refuting it on word use: like the American novel or Lewis' book examples.

I will conclude with this, however. In my essay on faith I regarded the dictionary definition as being 'untrue' or 'false'. Quite frankly I cannot make that claim as a whole, and I therefore write this as to explain what I meant but poorly expressed. More accurately, I was talking about faith as described by the Christian faith, and that according to this definition it would even be legitimate to describe science as being a form of faith. No doubt, however, that if one despised the very use of the word 'faith' then my thought could be refuted on the grounds of the improper use of a word. But really, that isn't to refute the ground of my logic, but my communication thereof.

This was a rather difficult essay to write, and I truly hope I have not caused more confusion than understanding. If, after reading, you feel as though what I said had absolutely no relevance to you, then completely disregard this essay as something which simply doesn't having anything to do with you at the present time. Disregard it entirely. On the other hand, if you managed to track with my thinking through this and believe there is something to it, then I hope you will understand better the phrase, 'please don't listen to what I'm saying; listen to what I'm trying to say.' No one of us has the corner market on philology: even Webster, as there have been countless revisions to his initial 72,000 word nineteenth-century release. Speak and listen, therefore, with humility and understanding.

The Inquisition: Confessions

This has been a rather difficult series to continue: I have multiple drafts saved of posts that I began, and some that I even wrote straight to a finish; but invariably I get to a certain point where I'm just not satisfied with what I've written. Sometimes I feel as though I gave a series of stock answers, rather than what I know: a bunch of knowledge which I've accumulated, but very little of which that I actually understand. Other times I simply find myself unhappy with the quality of the expression of my thinking: not that I wrote anything untrue or the like, but what I'm thinking and the product of what's written just don't align enough for my satisfaction. Finally, at times, I get so far then more or less forget where I was trying to go with my thought. I probably could finish, but it would be forced.

The purpose of this post is the heart behind the previous paragraph: to confess where I am not merely in my knowledge, but in my understanding— which is a good place to start.

Confession #1: Knowledge

Throughout my life I have been accused of a number of things. Some of these accusations were true, others were slightly true, and a blessed few had absolutely no truth at all to them. I remember working at one company when I was eighteen with my girlfriend at the time, Danielle, and her mother. I worked in the field as a Rodman, Danielle was a secretary, and her mother was the vice-president. We would drive to work in the morning, to save gas, and because of this I would get there the time they needed to, which was earlier than I needed to be there. Consequently I would join them in the office area doing random bits of work off the clock. I figured if I was to be there, then I might as well help. At eight o'clock everyday I would finish, wave to her mom, give Danielle a quick kiss, and head down to the docking area. I recall one day when I was informed I couldn't help in the office area anymore, but wasn't told why. Then, when I left for the day, I was informed that a rumor was going around that I had made out with Danielle in a supply room. This was news to me, and I felt rather cheated: if I were to be accused of something like that I'd just as soon have done it. But it wasn't true—not in the slightest.

I recall another time working in a gas station, Speedway, winter the same year. It was a simple job—show up, work the register, smile, change out the coffee and hot dogs, etc... As such I looked forward to chatting with my fellow workers—as to keep my mind from rotting from tedium—and got to know many different people. After a time, I really began to love and enjoy all of them, and looked forward to seeing them at work. One day in particular I was working with a young man in his late twenties named Ryan. For being so young, Ryan had accumulated himself a great deal of complication in his life; and, frankly, really needed a friend. I wanted to be that friend, so I enjoyed talking with him and hoped to help him. My intentions were fine, but the problem periodically raised that I had a bad habit of offering suggestions to situations of which I couldn't understand in the slightest. On this day, the issue was silently raising again, and finally, Ryan put words to it and demanded to know why I acted like I thought everything. This completely threw me. I retorted that I didn't actually think that, but couldn't escape within my own mind that clearly my actions and thoughts didn't cohere; I came off as an ignorant, arrogant jerk who thought he knew every answer to life.

That is my confession, and I'll add this. I think many times I still give off that impression. During the third month of my present trip in Asia, Jerry also brought up the issue— he wanted to think with me, and I was doing nothing but throwing answers at him. To be honest, in my mind I wasn't doing that, but for me to go around expecting the world to perceive me differently would be, well, vain. It doesn't exactly happen every week, but once or twice a year I find myself in a disturbingly similar circumstance. I suspect if some of my old friends were to see this post they would jump on the opportunity of reminding me of all the things I've said without understanding; of all the times I ought to have empathized, but instead responded to an emotional issue with an intellectual answer. Allow me to add this also, for I think it's worse than some know. Many times it isn't just that I respond poorly to a situation, for everyone does that one time or another, but all too often I find myself attempting to propose an answer which I actually don't understand myself. There, then, is my confession: I have much knowledge, but much of that knowledge I don't really understand. I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this arrogance in me, and ask your forgiveness.

Confession #2: Morality

This is my confession, not another's, so the premise behind the story I'm going to tell now is a true one, but I'm going to change a few details in order to protect the identity of the person involved. Please rest assured that I will not change anything which would either release or alleviate my involvement. When I was younger, I had a guest over for a bit who I very much enjoyed—we shall call him Roger. A promising young man with energy, Roger told me all about his friends and relationships, then asked about mine. We chatted for a good while and enjoyed one another's company, and I found that Roger really looked up to me. At the time I was in a relationship as well. He thought it was great that I was in a relationship as well and of the apparent happiness of our relationship. A bit later, Roger asked a rather vulnerable question concerning sex: a decently moral fellow, Roger wanted to wait until marriage to have sex with his girlfriend, but wasn't sure 'how far' he could go prior to marriage; he wanted to know how far was too far. Looking back on the question I realize the problem with asking such a question, for invariably the answer is going to be tested, so the whole heart behind the question is not what it at first seems to be. At the time I had been long since thoroughly testing out such a question in my own relationship, and wasn't about to allow this circumstance to make me feel guilty: after all, pleasure is really quite pleasurable. I gave him an answer. Even as I spoke it and years since, I knew I was telling him a lie: I didn't tell him what I thought the answer was: I told him what I wanted the answer to be. I told him that he could go so far as he wanted until he felt the temptation for sex too strong to resist. Sort of like telling someone to err on the side of speeding while driving around a mountain, but not to go so fast as to fall off the cliff during a turn. I don't mention this story for the purpose of proposing my own thoughts on sex, but to admit my own moral hypocrisy in the matter.

So here is my confession. I have told far too many people lies to justify my own moral deficiency. Don't get me wrong, there is morality, and if anyone agrees that I have been a hypocrite but deny morality, then I would ask them in what way am I a hypocrite? In fact it is much worse because I am aware of the moral code within me; I am aware that there is a God to help me with this moral code. So my confession then isn't so much that I make mistakes, for I'm not perfect and neither is anyone else on this planet; my confession is that not only do I not live up to the morality which Jesus has made possible, but I also have lead others astray in order to justify my own guilt. I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this hypocrisy me, and ask your forgiveness.

Confession #3: Girlfriends

I don't like to think about it all that much, but by this point I have had seven girlfriends. That's not easy for me to say, and I'm tempted to get rid of that and rule it out as an unimportant detail; but for the sake of honesty I'll leave it. It's not as though it's one heartbreak after another, and I'm aware that people often hurt each other in life within their pursuit of happiness: it's a cruel irony of life. Most times, I tend to believe, when someone hurts another they're rarely doing it out of pure evil: more often they have somehow contorted in their own minds that something will be set right by what they're doing, or 'they'll thank me in the end,' or 'I need this.' Other times, like my first three girlfriends, it's a silly high school boy trying to figure out life and why happiness seems to involve a woman in one's life. The psychology, theology, etc... behind this I'll leave for more qualified authors and thinkers; I'm merely stating that, although the relationships didn't work out, I honestly didn't know any better and neither did they: so I don't really feel bad for my initial relationships: It's kids trying to figure things out. By the fourth, I would say, is when I began to get the idea that perhaps I wasn't going about things the right way; but I didn't know any other way.

I feel like I should explain this, as it could sound as though I'm off-handedly insulting my fourth girlfriend. I'm not. What I mean is that in retrospect I'm quite certain I hadn't the faintest idea what I should do when a young woman offers me her heart; but I liked it, so I continued anyway. I can't speak for the young women, but I think much of my concept for dating relationships were very Hollywood instructed. In fact, I recall with shame one time driving down the road, getting into a heated argument with my fifth girlfriend—my longest lasting relationship of around three years. As we were driving I couldn't figure out what in God's name she was going on about, but I wanted her to shut up so things would go on being perfectly happy. I then recalled a moment in some movie with Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts: where they loved each other a lot but were driving down the road—like us—and having a heated argument—like us. In the movie, Brad Pitt tells her that if she doesn't stop yelling at him, that he would drive into the back of the car in front of him (or something like that). She didn't believe him and didn't stop, so he sped off towards the car with no indication of stopping. They don't hit the car, but they fly off the road and miraculously stop without any major damage; but nerves are shocked and it had just the effect on Julia Robert's character to make her realize she had pushed him too far and shouldn't do that. Yes, I tried this. But instead of hitting the car and going off the road (we were on an expressway), I slammed on my brakes and quickly changed lanes. It worked in that she was very shocked, but instead of realizing the error of her ways—as worked in the movie—she got even more pissed off and told me I was acting like a stupid child. I was.

Back to the concept of holding another's heart in my hand. I get this phrase from a preacher I remember hearing give a talk on dating from the Song of Solomon—an Old Testament book in the Bible. It was a really good sermon: very honest, sober, and realistic. Many times when I listen to such sermons, the preacher basically demands perfection or celibacy, which made me very nervous until I realized that's not true. This guy, among other things, hammered at one point for guys not to simply get into a relationship because it makes them feel good; and not court, especially, until the young man is willing and (more importantly) capable of holding a young woman's heart in his hands. It's sad: even as I think about that phrase I know so many young women who would advise other women to never make themselves so vulnerable to men. Men aren't then devil, but I do think in this culture we've made quite a habit of thinking about how women can satisfy our needs, and how we can appease them for it. It's disgusting, and I think I have added to this. I look back over my last four relationships and see that at first I was clueless, and clueless of how clueless I was. Then, after awhile, I became more aware of my cluelessness: I realized I wasn't able to hold a young woman's heart in my hands, but I kept trying; kept going out with women because of the emotional sense of purpose it gave me. And when it came time to love them as they needed to be loved, I found I wasn't capable of giving such love. Not yet anyway: I'm young, but I don't like to admit it sometimes. There's so much more I could say on the matter, but I really just want to confess that I have held hearts like diamonds in my hands, and as I was ignorant of what to do, I have hurt those hearts in the end. So this confession especially, I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this foolishness in me, and ask your forgiveness.

Confession #4: Christianity

I remember when I was nineteen or so, a friend came to me with an honest dilemma. It was a rather rough situation which really doesn't need to be explained, but rest assured it was a very serious circumstance to think through. More than anything he needed someone to listen to him: to hear what he had to say, nod, remark at how tough it is, encourage him, see if there's anything he would like me to do, etc...—which I did not do. Initially it wasn't a total car wreck, but honestly I wasn't listening—i.e., not like I should have been—as much as I was waiting for my turn to speak. Eventually we got in the car and went for a drive, then after a long pause I launched into a massive speech of pure prescriptivism: I had an answer to his problems, and it was God, period. It wasn't so much that what I said was entirely untrue, but my timing was terrible and rather insensitive; later I would learn that the right answer at the wrong time is always wrong. In retrospect, I believe was right in the sense that my friend needed Jesus, but what I ought to have done was be Jesus to him; I ought to have done what I am called to do as a Christian—literally, a 'little Christ'—and be there for my friend. That's what Christians mean when they talk about 'being Jesus" to someone. And that's my confession.

Gandhi, the famous Indian liberator, is sometimes quoted for saying the about the Christian faith, "I like their Christ. I don't like their Christians." I really appreciate Gandhi for having the clarity to look through individuals like myself and see the awesome man that we're trying to be. But that's just it: I'm amazed that, as we Christians believe, Jesus left it up to us Christians to be the 'Body of Christ' after he left; to be Jesus to the people. Whether or not someone agrees with Christianity is another issue, and quite possibly I'll go over some of the apologetic material behind Christianity in the future of my inquisition, but right now I just want to admit that I don't live up to the very standard by which I try to live. I blow it all the time. By this point, it's not so much that I try to possess every answer of Christianity and, in a sense, become Christianity—put another way, I don't try to possess every answer of God and, in a sense, become God—as much as I try and be transparent so that people can see Jesus in me. Jesus is in me, and enables me to be like him; it's not he that fails at it, I do. But I'm not a great representative, yet I vow that I shall try harder to be: to get out of the way so others can see God in my life, and not be some fool standing in front of Jesus trying to tell others that he exists; let him prove himself through me. I confess, then, that I have not done this; I shall try—for God and my love for him, for you, and for me—to be a better representative of what it is to be a Christian. It's a privilege. I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this short-coming in me, and ask your forgiveness.

Epilogue:

I think the question lingers by this point, why did I write this and what does it have to do with 'The Inquisition'? I'll answer the second question first. The Inquisition is a rather personal process for me: I'm not trying to solve all the philosophical questions of the world in a single series by a young adult male; my purpose is merely to reflect upon my own life and philosophies, and make sure what I believe and live by actually adheres to reality; i.e., truth. Sometimes I hear the philosophy that we ought to cast off our past, and what's really meant by that is to deny it and make a pact with ourselves never to look behind us and, if we do, to not care two cents about it. In the long run, I have never observed this to truly be effective, as ultimately, we say that 'the past catches up with you': that is to say, we realize that our past is a part of who we are, and that we cannot run from: we could be ten-thousand miles from that person, but what they did to us (or we to them) still lingers within us. Reconciliation, then, is the generally accepted alternative to amnesia; and this, I believe, begins with humility. So as the result of self-reflection and consideration, I realized the next step would be to confess my sins that I may move forward—I'll reflect on these choice of words in a moment. As to why I wrote it at all, I believe will take two answers:

(1) As I reflect on my life, I realize that there are many such people whom I have hurt along the way. Usually it is not so much that I meant to hurt them, but quite often I did not mean not to. At times, as well, I reflect on people that have hurt me, and I realize that the wounds inflicted by another can at times be a wound so long unreconciled with that it eventually begins to define us. I recall one famous playwright that wrote and autobiographical play, and in one of the scenes his mother is reflecting on pain and life and says (to paraphrase): "We cannot help what life does to us, but then we find ourselves attempting to fix what happened to us; and, eventually, we find we have spent our whole lives trying to simply undo what has kept us from being ourselves." Hurt another or not, I never want to be the reason why someone cannot grow, mature, and become who they want to be in life—whoever it is they want to be. We may differ on philosophy, politics and the rest, but I never want anyone to feel bound by wounds I have inflicted upon them; nor do I want to be bound or defined by the wounds I have given.

(2) One of my greatest fears would be to get to heaven and find out that someone did not get there on my account (i.e., in a way: I am certain God does not give such awesome, ultimate power to us as to be the sole reason for another's ultimatum): that someone looked to me as the token Christian, and when I inevitably let them down they felt as though Christianity must therefore be a fluke, a lie. As Christians we are told in the Bible to confess our sins and seek forgiveness. I apologize that I must use the word sin, but only in the sense that I do not have enough time, knowledge, or understanding to really explain sin from the ground up. One day I wish to be able to do this, but have yet to feel as though I can truly accomplish this in a way that would be properly thorough. If someone reading this does have an honest question concerning what the devil I mean by sin, and not just 'share' with me their opinion; then I'd be more than happy to direct you to more qualified thinkers who have written excellent material on the subject. But as for me, I do believe in sin: I have fought it my whole life—i.e., the sin in me. I believe very much the phrase that came somewhere from Africa: "The problem at the heart of humanity is the problem with the human heart." So I want to confess my sins, when I spot them, and hopefully in doing so help people who are distracted by me and my shortcomings to see past me to Jesus—another excellent subject worth researching if you don't know who or what in God's name I mean when I say 'Jesus'. So my conclusion is this: I want to become more, and I want others to be come more as well; and I believe at times that begins with confession. Please feel free to notify me of another category you believe I ought to consider for confession.

The Inquisition: Faith

I've been thinking about my Inquiry for a few days now, and initially my idea was to begin at the foundation of morality. I do not want to begin straight off with the concept of God, as I think it's better to start from scratch and lead up to God - assuming things go in the direction, which, I'm sure they will. As I thought, however, I decided instead to begin with the topic of faith itself: what is it, who has it, and is that bad?

In the 2004 movie Shall We Dance, the main character John Clark, played by Richard Gere, finds himself rather unhappy with his life - not as a whole as he later explains, but with himself; he needs something new, so he decides to take up, of all things, ballroom dancing. He turns out to be rather amazing, but he's embarrassed to tell his family because he doesn't want his wife to feel inadequate: that she might think he's not happy with her, when in truth he loves his family more than anything. But his silence and peculiarity raises suspicion in the mind of his wife - Beverly "Bev" Clark, played by Susan Sarandon. Beverly, having found out a colleague's husband is having an affair, decides to hire a private-eye to spy on her husband and found out if it's just "potpourri in the pot." As the story progresses, Beverly finds out that her husbands secret life is really that of ballroom dancing and not an affair, and finds herself angry and embarrassed by the whole thing. "I know, it's stupid," she exclaims to her husband in a rather annoyed tone.

It's a great movie, so I recommend watching it, but it strikes me as interesting that the wife in the story feels bad for the assumption she made - that he was having an affair when it wasn't true. Now someone may say that she had every right to be suspicious, and ultimately the husband apologizes for his, though innocent enough, duplicitous acts. But be it as it may, she still feels guilty about it, and it is this guilt which interests me. Why did she feel guilty? Simply and in short, she felt she ought to have had more faith in her husband. Years of routine and she never felt a moment's suspicion, but after a stroke of peculiar behavior, she began to entertain thoughts as opposed the very character of her husband. She knew he wasn't the sort to do such a thing, but for a moment she removed his character from the evidence and, as is natural, thought, "If my friend's husband cheated on her, then why wouldn't mine!" She neglected the simple truth that her husband wasn't her friend's husband.

Now, I feel a bit strange bringing up an example of which I have no experience, and I'm certainly not saying that men and women ought never to suspect their spouses, for, as sad as it truly is, and the movie shows, some suspicions are true - marriages to crumble at the shameless hands of adultery. What's so interesting though is that the wife felt ashamed at her lack of faith in her husband; that she should have had more faith than the scenario had evidence; that the many years evidence of her husbands character ought to have outweighed a moment's peculiar evidence. But in human relationship, and thinking as a whole, there is this part of us that takes a step further than simply taking solace in safe assumptions of the repetitious: I have walked through my front door enough times to depend on it taking me to the front yard, and by this point it is so strong in my mind - a confidence of what to anticipate - that I no longer even anticipate it, for it has become a thing of faith. Perhaps one doesn't like the idea of faith in inanimate objects and circumstances (and frankly the faith isn't in the door, but reality), and such is why I first introduced the situation of John and Beverly Clark. Beverly knew, as the wife, friend and lover of her husband, that she ought to have had more trust in John than the total sum of daily circumstances. Time with her husband taught her that John was more than a series of actions; he was a person in whom she could have faith. If a person only ever takes others at their most immediate perceptions and is therefore one minute trusting them and the next highly suspicious, we say that this person has 'trust issues' - as though there were an issue there at all. If I may, I believe it would, perhaps, be more accurate to say they have 'faith issues' - as trust describes an immediate reliance on something: we trust our friends when they borrow things to return them intact, and I trust this chair to hold my weight. One dictionary defines faith as "belief that is not based on proof" (Random House Dictionary, Dictionary.com), but I think this is a poor definition (dare I say), and would add but one word to correct it: "belief that is not based on [immediate] proof". For Beverly to have faith in John wouldn't mean a sudden dismissal of proof, but not an utter reliance on temporally immediate proof. I walk in my room and fall back in my chair in faith that past evidence has taught me the sturdiness of my chair.

So now that faith has been defined in these terms, we can progress a step further: who has faith? I hope, by the terms described above, it becomes obvious that we all do. Yet I have heard it retorted in such circumstances that an atheist, exempli gratia, is not in need of faith - it is a belief that science is the end all, and it is therefore based on pure empirical evidence that the atheist lives. It is a sort of philosophy that says that only that which can be surmised from testing using the five forms of sensory is to be accepted. The point of tension with this philosophy is that the philosophy itself is not scientifically verifiable and must therefore fall victim to its own conclusion: it is to be unaccepted. Put in the form of a question, if all must be tested by an outside source, science, then how does one test science to check its validity? This isn't to say that science or life are illusions (as has been considered by scientists and Buddhist scholars), but rather than science itself is not the end all to life. Science is then no longer a god or power, but because a system and convention - an idea; a noun, and we therefore place our faith in it. Yes, even science requires faith, though we may despise the very idea. I'll give an example:

Atheism is derived from the Greek: alpha, the negative, and theos, God. The word, and corresponding philosophy, does not say 'I think there is no God', but bluntly declares 'negative God'; 'no God'; id est, there is no God. It is affirming a negative which, in basic logic, is impossible. One cannot affirm a negative in the absolute. That would be for me to say that in the whole of the universe there is no rock with purple spots and green stripes: the only way for me to know this would be to have infinite knowledge. So in order to say there is no being with infinite knowledge would require that person to have infinite knowledge. Now, my fellow Christians, don't get me wrong. I have not just proven a the existence of God; I merely proved that one cannot claim to know that there is no God. My point, much more softly, is simply that even the atheist requires faith to believe what they believe. But with only the evidence I've provided thus far they may still be right! For the faith of atheism is not built on nothing. As I described, faith requires one to accept what is beyond the immediate proof, and atheism has giants with a powerful background of science and logic which gives them a powerful case against the idea of a God. But for now let us be content that all humans have faith, and to be deprived is somehow viewed as an 'issue' which stunts a human's life.

To conclude, I shall simply state that no, there is nothing wrong with faith, and no, that doesn't not mean one with great faith is somehow intellectually deprived. Let us not, by these terms, confuse faith with foolishness. I believe what the Random House Dictionary described was foolishness, not faith, though it does go to show that in contemporary view those of faith have abandoned all such proof and are, therefore, fools. This is sad, and it saddens me when people preach Christianity as something to be blindly believed in. Christianity, as I believe and seek to reaffirm, is reasonable; I believe it is the most reasonable thing in the universe. Indeed it requires a sense of humility: one must be willing to admit that one does not, in fact, know everything, and in such moments it is faith (belief in non-immediate proof) which gives the Christian further strength. I will be careful what I say here just yet, but wish to add one last note as I begin my Inquiry: the purpose of this Inquiry is not to be the perfect apologetic. Indeed many, far more intelligent than I, have written and spoken on both sides of the matter, and in future essays I plan on reviewing more of these minds. But for now, I plan only to go so far as satisfies my own sense of curiosity, skepticism, reflection and wonder. This may, for some, be helpful and encouraging; it may, for others, simply not be enough or of an unhelpful sort. I'm glad for the first and sorry to the latter, and encourage both to consider the questions of life in ways they understand.

The Inquisition: Introduction

Being in Asia for this time has, among other things, brought me to multiple points wherein I had to choose how to face an experience; as C.S. Lewis put it, "What we learn from experience depends on the kind of philosophy we bring to experience." This I believe to be exceptionally true and answers quite a number of questions I've heard as to the point and practical purpose of philosophy. Experience is indeed a teacher, but we as students must decide what we actually listen to and choose to remember. Indeed a teacher may do their best to teach me math, but if my philosophy dictates that math is useless, then I shall resolve to learn nothing. One does not have to learn from experience.

During my stay throughout Asia, therefore, my philosophies have been visited and revisited, revised, tempered and tested. It is one thing to sit in comfort and fancy the novelties of heaven and salvation. It is another thing entirely to discuss this with one who has been long suffering and is soon about to find out how true our truth is. It comes to my attention that sitting amongst such suffering I could be like Job's friends, or perhaps instead like Charles Templeton and use the opportunity to denounce God as too weak to help, a sadist, or simply non-existent: for a 'good and loving God would never allow such evil.' For that matter I would have to start by deciding that pain, in and of itself, is evil, and that evil is evil because it's painful.

I want to take a step backward, however, and first consider what is at stake to begin with: my philosophy. It is an old word of Greek origin. The first part of the word comes from phileo - 'to love' - and the latter from sophia - 'knowledge; wisdom'. What the word means in a contemporary context I shall leave alone, but years ago it was designated to mean a 'love of wisdom and knowledge', and that was when it was still believed that there was real wisdom and real knowledge. That is, absolute; unchanging. One did not sow seeds in the winter, for that was foolish, nor did one reap when the crops were young, for that too was foolish; one sowed when the soil was rich, which was wise, and reaped when the crops were at full stalk. Philosophy, therefore, immediately dictates the fruition of our experiences, and is therefore rather important to be considered. But I say this not to lecture; I say it to explain.

For this is my endeavor: to begin going through the various elements of my philosophies with a search for truth. Gladly, I shall continue to pull from without that which I 'know' but, admittedly, do not understand. It shall be a challenge to myself to see how well I can give an account of my philosophies, while attempting to sift and set truth. To put it another way, to make sure that my philosophies are defined and derived of truth, not truth of my philosophies.

My posts therefore related to the search and reflection shall therefore be super-titled 'The Inquisition: '. I pray that my intellectual odyssey may be of use to some that might read it, and I encourage all at various points within ones life to take some time and check whether our image of reality actually coheres with reality. Otherwise, quite frankly I'm afraid, experience is not teaching us truth for we're not looking for it.

Good Friday: Passionate Amnesia

Forgive the tone of this post of which I am sure to have a rather dark spectrum. Dad, I apologize that I am likely as well to wax eloquent and philosophical, for I fear we all retreat the the donjon of our own minds wherein we have (we hope) the most chance of making sense of things. Mine is language and philosophy, yet I hope I should do neither for their own sakes; but indeed for the hope of making sense of things.

Have you ever watched a play or film which especially moved you twice only to find yourself more emotionally involved the second time around, yet in a different sort of way? You know the ending already and therefore anticipate it; the character does or says something, or does not do or say it, and we grip in our hearts the terrible anticipation of what we know to come. In such moments I must admit finding myself hoping beyond hope that by some sheer impossibility the story itself will somehow change so the father doesn't have to die, the lover doesn't believe a lie, the protagonist figures it out before all is lost. But, by and by, the very scenes themselves change in your heart - foreshadowed not by device, but by sheer, terrible knowledge of the ending.

The story of the Cross often does this for me, and as I prepare in my heart and mind to speak at a church service on Good Friday - the day on which Christ died and yet, like the film, call good due to knowledge of the ending; in reality, to the disciples at the time, it was anything but good. Yet it is not the cross itself wherein I find myself willing a different circumstance for, and perhaps selfishly, I understand (as best I can) the necessity of the cross as it frees me from Sin. No, where I experience this phenomena the greatest is during the laying of palm leaves as Jesus entered the city.

Allow me to illustrate the situation: Jesus approaches the city and supernaturally instructs his disciples to go and fetch a colt at a specific place and bring it to him. They went and did so. Then, as Jesus is entering the city its citizens go before him and lay palm branches on the ground to keep the very feet of the donkey from touching the ground - symbolizing their reverence to him as a king. Even as they placed the branches before him they cried:

Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD!
The King of Israel!
Hosanna in the highest!

Later in time hymns were constructed of these rejoicing lyrics, and thus we sing before God in church the very words which rang throughout his ears as he entered the city which would kill him. As I read these words I find it difficult not to scowl, for I know the very same voices would soon be shouting with greater passion of animosity, "Crucify him!" before the sound of praise even had time to settle. Though I know not how or for what purpose, but at times I wish the very story itself would change here, for I know the climax. But alas it is much worse! For Christ himself knew time out of mind before the very day what was yet to come, yet he rode on just the same as to fulfill the prophesy of his Father.

I wonder what went through Christ's mind as he quietly rode through the crowd. Did he look at the faces he knew would be jeering him all too soon and imagine how they might sound? Was he in total command of his imagination, or did he find himself daydreaming the horrors he would soon face? On the other hand was he even then gracious? Did he smile as he rode with a sort of gratitude? Was he, perhaps, with a sense of sympathy for them?

"Yet while we were still sinners, Christ died for us," is what the apostle Paul would later write of the occasion. I wonder, and I hope with humility and not pessimism, if we perhaps misunderstand the cross in light of all this. Do we not encourage one another: "Christ saw something in us, even as sinners, that he wanted to save - even at the cost of his own life!" Yet, really, is this not egoism? I do not believe the cross says anything about the redeemed; I believe it says much about the redeemer. The late Bob Benson put it this way: "I like being chosen, but you won't understand it by looking at the choosee; you'll only understand by looking at the chooser." Jesus healed lepers, but I believe this says more about the healer than the healed.

Philip Yancey in his book "Where is God When it Hurts?" describes a remarkable moment in the life of St. Francis Assisi:

"One of the transforming moments of Francis Bernardone's life occurred when he was riding a horse as a young nobleman and came across a person with leprosy. Francis was bitter towards God at the time, and felt a certain revulsion at the diseased man. But something in him overcame both those reactions. He dismounted from his horse, walked over, and embraced the beggar, kissing him full on the lips."

Does this imply that the lepor was huggable and kissable? Was it that, on some level, the beggar meritted the affection of a nobleman? This is argued, but not by the testament of truth; for by such a story one does not walk away with a greater understanding of the beggar by any amount; but rather a deeper understanding and (hopefully) admiration for the giver of affection.

Who is this Christ then, that he should notice me? Not who am I that Christ should notice me. I was a lepor of heart, born with both a body and spirit bent on decay, yet by his grace I have a spirit renewed - unmarred, unscathed, uninfected; eternal.

Christ is a mystery which has consumed days of my life like a fire of glorious blue, and as I cast more time into its consumption it burns all the greater and brighter, and I want evermore to cast but a second more. As this Good Friday approaches I pray not for the passion of the moment - the intensity of emotion, the underlying guilt, or even the rejoicing of spirit - but rather to do as my Lord told of me as I commemorate him by the consumation of bread and wine; body and blood: to remember who he - the Christ - was, is and always will be, for alas, the only thing worse than nastalgia is amnesia. It is not about me; it is about Him.

Let My Words be Few

For years now, I have pondered the verse in the New Testament book of Matthew 6:6-8:

"But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

From there, Jesus goes on to give his famous example prayer, which matches perfectly his own instruction. I specifically think most about verse six that talks about praying with few words and, frankly, I really wonder as I pray and as I hear others pray, if perhaps we say too much. Truly this is not to be cynical, and I'm not about to go into the debate as to whether or not we need to pray at all, but I really consider why we feel the need to use many words.

Am I the only one that has the conception inlaid within my mind that a lengthy, poetic prayer is a "good one"? I tend to hear from my own mouth and the mouth of others a string of impressive phrases imbued with value, such phrases that often cause those in proximity to proclaim "Amen!" in concurrence to said phrase. I scan over the Lord's prayer and every time I realize just how unimpressive it is, save that it came from the Christ himself; Christ's prayer is thorough to be sure, as he covers thankfulness, humbleness, humility, righteous desire, physical need, forgiveness from God and to others, spiritual need, remembrance and perspective - all in, more or less, sixty words depending on translation.

There is nothing I intend in this thought to do anything other than expand and reconsider the mind on prayer; I do not slander any one form of prayer over another in this, for that isn't my plan or purpose; I just wonder if when we sing, "So let my words be few," if we really mean that or not, and if we could be satisfied in faith to speak humbly in few words to our Lord. There is so much more here that could be said, but for now, I'll let my words be few.

Watering a Dry and Thankless Heart

Tonight Jerry brought to Taiwan an idea which he regularly uses in New Jersey, the title of which is "Seven to Wheneva" - wherein people show up around 7:00pm and do for a variable amount of time that which they feel led to do: sing, dance, sit quietly, pray with one another, pray to God, read their Bible, etc... As such events often yield, the results were marvelous and I lost myself in prayer, worship and thinking about God. There reached a point in which I decided to start listening to Ravi, and as usual when listening to him, I started to think tangents off of what he was saying, and conclude with many of my own thoughts, this essay is the product of such thoughts.

I recalled a story which I've so often told: a true story which is more accurately a pair of stories, but with a single point. The first story tells about a plane flying through the upper atmospheres, and all is well until suddenly one engine after another die. The pilot gets on the radio with the tower and as the situation is discussed, the pilot decides he must make an emergency landing on a local runway. The plan comes down and strikes the runway with such force that the landing gear is crushed beneath it and the plane slides in a heap of metal and flame. Emergency vehicles and personal are immediately on the scene, having anticipated it, and began pulling people from the burning aircraft. The pilot is on the forefront of the action, pulling one person after another from the plane and handing them to emergency personnel until finally the personnel won't allow him to return into the flaming inferno for he himself is on fire. The pilot is heartbroken, for there were still some left in the wreckage which he could not save. The question raised thereafter is this: if you had a loved one on that plane and you met the pilot, would you not want to eagerly take his hand, shake it and thank him for his heroism? The second story, meanwhile, tells of another plane in a similar circumstance - flying freely through the air, then one engine, two, three and four all die, the pilot then comes over the sound system, "Folks, ditching is eminent; ditching is eminent." Suddenly, an engine comes to life and the pilot is able to limp the plane safely to a runway. Finally the question is posed: whom do you thank then?

I have heard this story and I have spoken it on numerous occasion, yet I admit now that it is quite possible if not entirely likely that I speak a story which I myself do not fully understand. I, as one might put it, am a recovering realist - that is, one who always makes sense of things by use of typical reason; not an optimist which, classically, considers the glass half-full; nor the pessimist who doesn't particularly even like the glass; nay, the realist which confirms that the glass is indeed leveled at fifty percent. I say recovering because, quite frankly, traditional realism is not quite so real as much as it is dry - the ultimate realist is one who admits to his lover not that he loves her, but that he's having a chemical reaction. The point being: stark realism has a tendency to ultimately leave one with little more than illegitimate security that they're not being "taken in" by any such nonsense. But really, is the lover truly only having a chemical reaction; is love a word merely used for the optimist of heart? No, that's absurd, and if one's honest, they know it.

There are moments in life in which something simply fantastic happens and we remark, "That worked out", "That was close" or some other phrase which admits something unexpected and, often, unlikely just happened. At times I pray for something to happen, and when it does I thank God for His kindness to me, but honestly, I rarely pray so specifically that I notice it happen; the best of my gratitude is often the product of retrospective thought. But otherwise I tend to justify my situation into circumstance and chance, appreciating nothing but luck - who doesn't care in the slightest. I fear if I were in the second plane whose engine miraculously started, I would have spent the length of my time considering the physics behind what had just happened, and what it would take for a turbine engine to start back up again - "Perhaps the turbine got jammed," I'd wonder, "so no air could get in and the combustion choked, then as the plane began to fall the turbine got unstuck and, still hot, was able to ignite when oxygen reached the fuel line." Makes perfect sense, but true or not, I've effectively managed to suffocate a remarkable situation of all magnificence; I've sacrificed magnificence on the calculated alter of realism, and am not the better person for it, indeed I've lost all means for gratitude.

So what is the problem? Is there something wrong with realism, and some necessity for thankfulness? Oh indeed, for the realist is reduced to chemical reactions and calculated circumstance, substituting such out love and wonder. Please understand I am dealing with realism to extremity, but only for the sake of admitting just how much we so often reason the glory out of circumstance.

One time I was in New Orleans fixing and gutting homes for folks after the disaster of Hurricane Katrina. There was one fellow on the trip which, if you get the chance, you should like to meet and know - his name is Alejandro Rodriguez, or Alex as we called him. The man was the most thankful chap you ever met, daily thankful for the very air he breathed. During our stay in New Orleans we were informed of a dreadfully large spider called the Brown Recluse, which is terribly large and poisonous. At one point in the trip everyone was gutting homes, and Alex was doing just that; a hammer in hand and on top of a ladder, he was slamming away at one of the rotten ceilings. Suddenly the ceiling he was striking gave way and opened in front of him, and right there in front of him were three of the disgustingly huge spiders, Alex was rightfully startled by this and began to lean himself back away from the creatures - this, unfortunately, put him off balance and sent him falling backwards off the ladder, but, remarkably, as he fell he managed to yell out four words with all his desperation, "I love you Jesus!" This is one of those few stories that I have a difficult time telling, because I myself have a difficult time believing that such a person as Alex actually exists.

What is it in us realists which so often causes us to scoff at Alex? For Alex yet has a joy which your average realist will admit he has not. For realism is indeed a two edged sword, wherein gratitude is a joy to be shared; realism cuts, a thankful heart appreciates and adds value unto - for the lover informing another of a chemical reaction yet cleaves the moment, while the admittance of love imbues the relationship with something mystical that, while the average realist is suspicious of, he does not deny the desire for. Mysticism, in such as love, is not dismissible on any other account than it is often not predictable or calculative. I fear however, that to truly understand love it is first required that one understands gratitude or, at least, is capable of being truly thankful. How can I love Jesus for dying on the cross for me, if I'm too busy calculating the circumstance? How could I love a wife, if I wasn't thankful to her for who she was? But what is the point of being thankful to her for such things? She simply is who she is, so why be thankful of it as though it were a favor to me? Such thinking is so dry and yields a crop equally as dry and will only prove to dry my mouth upon consumption; it should by my own dryness which dehydrates and kills me. Indeed, why not be thankful to God for everything down to the peculiar circumstances of life? Would not a gratitude of life to God only give me a greater love for life and God? Is that not what we're really looking for? I should much like to be alive and joyful than dead and cunning.

Thoughts on Global Ministry

        Traveling to Taiwan has, in many ways, been a remarkably beneficial trip; it has brought to light many tentative subjects within my mind, a list of which would be extremely difficult to produce by shear volume. But more than theoretical pondering, my mind works fervently to take all of this and turn it into a way by which to live my life. I’ll share but one element which has been scratching at my mind in the length of this trip:

        While being here, Jerry and I have appreciated the opportunity to join the local ministry in, what they call, “Individual Evangelism” – wherein we go to a public location and find random people, hopefully by the Spirit’s prompting, and share the gospel with them. This, to say the least, was quite the opportunity for Jerry and me to grow. The first instance of Individual Evangelism began with Jerry, me and a few others walking into the local university, from there our Taiwanese hosts went and, unbeknownst to us, began rallying a group of students because “some Americans had something they wanted to say to them.” By the time this news had arrived to Jerry and me a group of fifteen or so students had already formed and were staring at us with uncertain anticipation. We simply stared back for a moment like two barnyard animals, then Jerry began to stammer out and introduction and, before we knew it, we were talking about Jesus to the students. Needless to say, that, at the very least, inspired some rather interesting conversation between Jerry and me that night.

        Now don’t get me wrong, Jerry and I did not return home but to grouse about the experience; I’m the sort of chap which prefers to grouse right away at the proper opportunity, lest I should lose enthusiasm. This however, was nothing to complain about, but was something to be considered: Is the method of “Individual Evangelism” really the most effective method of sharing the gospel? Is it perhaps what real evangelists do, in that by being the boldest, most direct and quickest it’s obviously the best and most spirited? What sort of Christians would such a method produce? The questions, I assure you, can go on, and if they don’t mean much to you they would if you’d just finished with said circumstances. One troubling thought to me is that the method had a tendency of creating “spiritual orphans” – folks who listen, and perhaps even dropped on a knee right there and gave their lives to Jesus, had no immediate and effective means of follow-up; more troubling, however, was the simple fact that this method forces me to tell you about fifteen students; from beginning to end, I didn’t know their names or anything about them; I simply approached them with the presupposition that they had a terminal problem in their lives that they perhaps weren’t aware of, and I was going to offer them the cure. I cannot help but feel that this is a bit presumptuous on my behalf, and it turns people from lives in need of understanding and salvation, into projects in need of fixing. I am not under the notion that I will know the name and history of every person to which I speak, nor will I be able to, but under circumstances of a classroom or speaking engagement, I at least can make the fair assumption that those listening knew who I was and what they were going to hear before hearing it, allowing them the opportunity to consider beforehand if they really wanted to here it and, perhaps more importantly, if they really cared at all.

        Jerry and I, after consideration, began using a phrase to describe an alternative solution: “Relational Evangelism” – in which we would go up to people with nothing more than the idea that we would get to know this person. Even this has some presumption to it, but is rather less offensive in nature and has thus far not yielded poor results. I won’t deny that we should much like to talk about God in the conversation, but I think the major difference in this is that we don’t preload the meeting that it must go in this direction (though it often does), and God, when he does come up, is a friendly discussion, rather than an unanticipated sermon. This method, I will admit, doesn’t quite have the quantity which the former methodology offers but, in my heart and mind, yields much more loving results; in truth, I should much more like to have the opportunity to tell someone just how much I care about them and why (which first demands that I actually know them, somewhat), than en masse inform a group of people whom I don’t know that they have a problem and I know the answer, nice to meet you.

        I am afraid, however, that my mind has actually taken this a step further, which is actually my real purpose of writing this silliness. Let us consider an individual or business with missionary purposes – they’ve concluded that they like God, and would like others to know about Him, on a global basis. Is it possible to move to a new area, especially as a large ministry or business, and not ultimately lead to this form of evangelism (Individual Evangelism, that is)? Come to think of it, that’s not quite my thought so please allow to try again: the secular crowd boasts (and at times fairly so) of their entrepreneurial purposes: global warming, war against aids, disaster relief efforts, etc… to name a few, and whether or not one agrees with the cause, one ought to appreciate the heart behind it to actively do something against what’s considered a problem – the intention behind it, I will not get into, but I do believe there’s a distinction between when a Believer efforts such a cause, and when a secular individual does so – not in effect, but in reason. So does one go to Indonesia in order to provide disaster relief for the troubled, or inform them that if they accept Christ, he will come into their lives and promise them eternal life? I do not ask this mockingly but solemnly, for while the predicament does not usually come up in such an obvious way, many missionaries do in fact set out for the simple purpose of salvation. My point then, I suppose, is that I believe we (or at least I) ought to do both.

        One often hears that the most effective way to do anything in anyone’s life is to form trust in the one being helped – they first must want help, then they must allow themselves to be helped, and finally trust us to be the ones to do it. This is rightfully so, and I’ve heard this from the mouths and pens of activists and missionaries alike. Missionaries especially, I’ve noticed, appear to have a more difficult time with this one, and I’ve heard stories thereafter of people suddenly opening up in light of a missionary’s attempt to do something for the people as a whole that is not, in the cause, religiously purposed. There is indeed something in the true actions of a loving cause which speaks volumes to the human heart; for some reason we far more understand the genuineness of another’s love in the particular, if we first see its presence in the general. In short, love for a people through acts of grace opens doors for relational evangelism. In truth though, a part of me fears laying out such a formula, in the realization that if done dryly, it is only a long-term means of treating people as projects – I must therefore, though I hesitate, reflect on the human heart.

        It has been said that “the problem at the heart of humanity is the problem with the human heart.” Elsewhere in Proverbs it mentions that Man looks at the ways of men, but the Lord considers the heart. Regardless of what some publicists proclaim, the intentions of men do in fact make a difference and does in fact matter. If a man were to return a lost pet to a family, it would make a difference as to whether or not he did it for the reward money posted on fliers – but the pet was returned, was it not? Is not the effect therefore the same? To say yes, I believe, would prove a level of shortsightedness, for it would be to deny that humans affect one another ontologically; the children would see this, and understand the difference between a kind motive and a selfish one. The phrase “you are what you do” is absolute nonsense, but it would be true to say “you do because of who you are”, and the disposition of our character is constantly communicated within our words and actions, but that does not mean who we are is contained within words and actions; one can get an idea of who I am because I wrote this, but one would be greatly mislead if they attempted to define me by this. This point is perhaps overstressed for the purpose of lending weight to my thought: intentions are the manifestation of our character in what we do and say, and our intentions, therefore, are more important than our immediate cause; intentions, in fact, is our cause for our causes. This, if you know the story, is why it was so much more meaningful for the woman of poverty to give to the temple in Jesus’ time than the Pharisees.

        Intentions, furthermore, cannot be in and of themselves their own reason any more than I can actually lift myself off the ground by grabbing my feet and pulling. The giving of gifts at Christmas is a good secular example of this and is the purpose for so many films which preach the goodness of “Christmas Spirit” – the idea that it is better to give than to receive, and that one must give of something truly meaningful to a loved one; give the gift for the purpose of implicitly telling that person how much you care about them, not because you wanted to give a gift. The arts heard first the cry (as they always do) of meaningless intention, and thus coined and preached of a new, invisible intention called “The Christmas Spirit” – which, quite frankly, is but another intentioned based off itself in a cyclical form. Even, and especially, we Christians ought not to find ourselves creating such self-defining causes; do not be a missionary because it is good to be a missionary, do not worship because it is good to worship, do not even pray because it is good to pray. Please understand, I cry with hurting people, preach the gospel, love my parents, and keep from cheating on my taxes for the same reason: to worship and therefore love the Lord my God with all my heart, soul, mind and strength. He gives unity in diversity in all areas of life; there is not one cause or intention that need be for its own purpose. Let us not forget, however, that God is not a mere vessel of infinity, but a character, and He does not tolerate evil causes to be proclaimed in His name. I will cease qualifying my thoughts on intention here, for it is such an argument as has been argued between humans for ages, and I shall perhaps write about at a later time, but that is not my purpose here.

        Lest it be forgotten, the subject is global ministry, and my conclusion for such ministry is that, for the cause and intention of loving and worshipping God, the minister ought consider first expressing his love for God’s people by feeding the poor, aiding the disabled, uplifting the widows, etc… as the Lord prescribes. What of spreading The Gospel? Personally, I consider The Gospel to be among the more incredible manifestations of God within the world, and feel shame when I doubt its capability or (what’s perhaps worse) take it upon myself to be that which upon the gospel relies. If we live our lives righteously, lovingly, in worship and in truth, yet not for the sake of any of these, it will raise questions and we will be called to give an account for the hope that we have (1 Peter); love people without expecting love in return, and people will wonder; feed a hungry people and they will ponder your purpose; visit a lonely widow or widower and they will consider the God which sends you. The Gospel is true, and truth cannot be long covered; live in His Truth and a dead world will ponder your life, and opportunity will present itself for Relational Evangelism.