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.