some thoughts

Saw this on Drudge sometime today:

Is it just me…or should the bottom one be red instead?

I take a lot of flak for liking “old books.”

And rightly so, I’ll admit (this is nostalgic reflection, not a defense). I’ve even said of myself that it’s an “nearly insatiable case of booklust.” But, if I may…there is a little something more to it than that. Would you indulge me for a moment?

I do like books. And, usually, it is the old ones I like best. Thinking back, I guess I’ve always liked them–but never for their own sake, I don’t think. There’s something a little behind, a bit just out of reach of the mere pages–not even “in” or “on” them–after all, they’re nothing in themselves but dried wood pulp and ink. No, it’s something more…something deeper, not-completely-containable, something not entirely “logical,” something even (may I say it?)…a little magical.

The earliest “old books” I remember liking are my dad’s boyhood collection of edge-worn, yellow-jacketed Hardy Boys adventures (circa 1920s!). I can still see them all lined up in a row on an obscure shelf in my grandparents attic–no doubt placed there strategically so that I’d have to “explore” a bit to get to them–just whispering to me each summer we visited. Frank and Joe were men’s men–honor, courage, integrity, a strong sense of right and wrong and an even stronger sense of adventure and curiosity. These were even men enough to have a well-mannered boxing match to settle a brotherly dispute–with never a grudge held afterward. I still get a twinkle in my eye when I think about them. But, the yellow pages and their musty smell were nothing in themselves without the soul-kindling stories they told me. (Perhaps the oldness of the books, the color, the wear, the smell, came to be a sort of “sacrament” of the wonderous stories they contained, a reminder of something there, something behind, but which was never fully found out.)

Later it was the classics of Greek Mythology. The fantastic heroes, the epic journeys and battles, the classic trifecta popularized in a recent “viral book” in the church world: “A battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to win.” Others bought new copies, but I got to read my mom’s old ones. Somehow the oldness of the pages made them seem part of the story itself, as if they were filled up by an endangered but committed onlooker. At about the same time, it was the old political and poetical works, the epics, the comedies and the tragedies. The big ideas and guiding principles were absolutely captivating! Life, I was learning, was big, it was old, and it was everywhere–and it was mostly outside of my miniscule me and the problems of my meager day-to-day meanderings. Life was out there! Conversations on law and politics and philosophy and meaning and beauty that had long outlived (and continue to outlive) every human contributor–all waiting for me listen in on, take up, become well versed in, and joyfully pass on to another eager sojourner or two.

For the past few years, as will be no surprise to anyone reading here (both of you!), it’s been the puritans and the great works of the church; whether devotional, polemic, systematic, poetic, anything. Even more exciting than the epic stories of Greek Myth, the clever sleuthing of Frank and Joe, the brilliant prose and rhetoric of the classics, is the story of the Covenant-keeping Creator, the first Adam and the Last, the bride and her soon-coming King. I don’t wish to live in the puritan age (I would surely be disappointed,) but something just seems deeper about their time. It seems as though they were so much less hurried than we are. They lingered over questions, ideas, conversations–each other. I am probably romanticizing, but it just seems as if they could more easily live lives of deep meaning and meditation, reflecting on and enjoying each day before gently laying it to rest.

How easily we can (or, I should say, “I can”) go for weeks, if not months, without really being “awake” to what is going on all around and outside of us (me)! These “old books”, with all else they give, also give a small taste of a life of simplicity, quiet contentment, wonder at everything outer. No; it isn’t the mere materials of the books (how small a fancy!), nor even the rustic-ness of the “olden days” (reverse chronological snobbery!), but the ideas, the stories, the characters, “the good, the beautiful and the true”, the “permanent things,” that beckoned me “further up and further in,” to look up and out and away from myself, and catch the fire of imagination and curiosity about the world out there. All of these (may I call them, “friends”?) taught me to listen (though I am still learning how). That quote from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington a few posts back said it well: “‘Have you ever noticed how grateful you are to see daylight again after coming through a long dark tunnel?’ ‘Well…always try to see life around ya as if you’d just come out of a tunnel.” Lewis probably said it best of all with his comments about nostalgia and sehnsucht in The Weight of Glory.

So, yeah…I do like old books. But not because they’re old, nor because they’re books, really. It’s what’s in them that stirs me. It’s what’s in them that helps me to see and to hear–and to want to see and hear–all that’s out there. That’s why I like “old books.”

A favorite poem of mine:

To Mr. Lawrence

 – John Milton, To Mr. Lawrence

What is the Sabbath?

I really appreciate what Geerhardus Vos wrote about the Sabbath in his Biblical Theology:

The Sabbath is not only the most venerable, it is likewise the most living of all the sacramental realities of our religion. It has faithfully accompanied the people of God on their march though the ages. (139)

And even better:

Before all other important things, therefore, the Sabbath is an expression of the eschatological principle on which the life of humanity has been constructed. There is to be to the world-process a finale, as there was an overture, and these two belong inseparably together. To give up the one means to give up the other, and to give up either means to abandon the fundamental scheme of Biblical history. Even among Jewish teachers this profound meaning of the Sabbath was not entirely unknown. One of them, being asked what the world to come would be like, answered that it would resemble the Sabbath. (140)

Among other things, then, the Sabbath is a sacrament. In the garden, Adam kept the Sabbath as a reminder of the rest–God’s permanent, eternal rest–that he was to achieve after successfully fulfilling the covenant of works. It was a sign of God’s promise to bring him into a state of confirmed integrity (or, non posse pecare) should he succeed the probation. While he was in covenant, the promise stood. And while the promise stood, so did its sacramental sign: the Sabbath.

I’m just throwing an idea out there, but what if that “remember the Sabbath” didn’t mean “remember the Sabbath that you’ve been keeping until now — except now it’s codified into your national law”? What if, instead, that “remember the Sabbath” was a joy-producing re-instatement of the promised sign of confirmed blessing way back in the garden? Would the Jews have seen this as a “second chance” to succeed where Adam had failed? Would they have been awestruck by the revived opportunity to finally enter God’s eternal rest? I guess what I’m getting at is, what if the Sabbath (pre-Christ) is strictly tied to the covenant of works? There was “no [codified, theocratic] law” between Adam and Moses. Wouldn’t it make sense that, if the Sabbath were a sign of the promise of reward upon successful completion of the covenant of works, the promised sign would cease when the covenant–and the promise–did?

Now, of course, we celebrate the Sabbath in remembrance of Christ’s work–in joyfully calling to mind his victorious obedience (”even unto death”) in his covenant of works, having merited heaven for us. Unlike Israel, we celebrate the Sabbath first, then we work six days in response: we do not work to enter, we work because we have entered (and do enter). And it is still a sacramental reminder of the promised state of permanent, eschatological glory to come. It was Christ who fulfilled the covenant of works, and only Christ (and those “in him”) who can rightfully claim enjoyment of the promise in the sacramental Sabbath.

Some might object that the Sabbath, like marriage, was a creation ordinance. Yes, but if it is truly a sacramental reminder of the promised state of glory, if it really points to the goal of man’s obedient existence coram Deo, then must it not be wholly covenantal? Wouldn’t its celebration only be vaild for those in covenant with God, and therefore who could stake a claim in that very substance of which it is merely the shadow, namely, eschatological life and glory?

So, among other things, I realy think the Sabbath is a sacrament. And, like the other sacraments, I think the blessings of the Sabbath, maybe, ought to be reserved only for those in covenant with Christ.

I am way open to challenges and correction here…thoughts, anyone?

[Update: I feel I should point to something I read about a year ago that I’d completely forgotten about. The article is called The Sabbath as an Eschatological Sign of the Covenant, and was written by Lee Irons. I came across it again today, and found him arguing a very, very similar position to what I’d written in the post above. So, in the interest of full disclosure, I must’ve been influenced by these ideas…because apparently they stuck. Anyway, now you know.]

I post so rarely anymore it almost seems inappropriate for me not to give some sort of explanation before offering some thoughts on anything other than my prolonged absence. (Though, I suppose ‘I’m engaged’ might work, what with wedding plans and marriage preparations…) Suffice it to say that I have missed my outlet here, and will steal away from time to time as I am able. Now, on to my thoughts.

I’ve had a few discussions lately about the nature of Christianity, and who its adherents are, and are not. By that, of course, I do not mean any particular persons, but instead particular ’systems’ of belief as defined by their sacred texts or official documents, positions, etc.

Islam. One such conversation dealt with whether or not Muslims worship the God of Abraham. I said ‘absolutely not,’ while my friend said ‘yes, of course they do.’ I agreed that they may say they worship the God of Abraham, but they in fact do not. My reasoning goes like this: there is content to the name, ‘The God of Abraham.’ It is not a word without meaning nor an empty container with no ‘filling.’ Words (and therefore, names,) are thought-containers, and Christians fill that thought-container with content revealed in the Holy Scriptures. Muslims, on the other hand, fill that thought-container with content described to them in their sacred text, the Qu’ran. Despite the identical thought-container, the thought-content is radically different. The God of Abraham, as understood by Christians, was, is, and shall forever be fundamentally Triune. He is the awesome One-in-Three, and Three-in-One. The ‘God of Abraham,’ as believed by Muslims, is not Triune. We believe in God the Father…God the Son, eternally begotten (yet not made) by God the Father, and in God the Holy Spirit who proceeds from the Father and the Son. That is our content to the name, ‘The God of Abraham.’ Muslims decry this ‘content’, and proclaim (as is written around the inside of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem,) “God does not beget, nor is he begotten!” That is their content to the name, ‘The God of Abraham.’ The God of Abraham is eternally Triune. Muslims worship a god who is most emphatically not Triune. Therefore, no matter what name they use, they do not worship the true God of Abraham. We find a similar situation in another religion getting much attention these days; Mormonism.

Mormonism. Another such conversation dealt with whether or not a Mormon is a Christian. (A better question would be, ‘Is Mormonism Christianity?’) Again, most assuredly, the answer is ‘no, they are not.’ They claim to worship ‘Jesus Christ,’ bu–again–their thought-container ‘Jesus Christ’ has much different, even contradictory, thought-content than does historic, orthodox Christianity. They fill their thought-container with things like ‘created being,’ ‘who appeared to the peoples of the Americas after his ascension,’ to name only a couple. Theirs is a polytheistic religion, whereas Christianity is a monotheistic religion; that is, we believe there is only one God, they believe there are many gods. These contradictory thought-contents for the thought-containers, ‘God’ and ‘Jesus Christ’ reveal that–again–no matter what name they use, they do not worship the true Jesus Christ. Thus, Mormonism isn’t Christianity.

Both of the above errors involve two mistakes: one is logical, the other theological. Logically, as I said above, using the same name does not mean we refer to the same person. Words (and therefore names) have content, and meaning. We do not mean by the name ‘The God of Abraham’ what Islam means by the same name, nor do we mean by the name ‘Jesus Christ’ what Mormonism means by the same name. We must compare the content behind the names, the realities behind the labels, not merely the names and labels used.

Theologically, both of these problems come from a flawed doctrine of God, and (therefore) a flawed doctrine of Christ. As stated above, God was, is, and shall forever be Triune [kudos to my fiancee for this point]. Though there is a three-ness to God, there is also a radical one-ness. The unity of God is such that one cannot worship the Father without the Son, nor the Son without the Father. The three persons are one God. Jesus teaches us that(1) ‘[He] and the Father are one. He who has seen [Christ], has seen the Father.’ Later in the epistles we are taught that ‘No one who denies the Son has the Father. Whoever confesses the Son has the Father also.’ Again, ‘Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Christ has been born of God, and everyone who loves the Father loves whoever has been born of him.’ Once more, ‘Everyone who goes on ahead and does not abide in the teaching of Christ, does not have God. Whoever abides in the teaching has both the Father and the Son.’ Because of God’s triune nature, there can be a distinction of persons. And, because of God’s unity, the three persons are radically one - that is, they are inseparable. My point here, particularly in the case of Islam, is simply this: one of the persons of the Trinity cannot be ‘broken off’ from the others and worshipped alone. God is indivisible. God is one.

A robust theology proper (doctrine of God), including a robust Christology (doctrine of Christ), will make defending Christianity against these two errors–and for going on the evangelistic offense in return–a much easier practice.

Just a thought.

It’s so hard to articulate what the writings of C. S. Lewis have instilled in me. I’ve read how others have tried to describe the sense of time-pausing, stop-and-stare wonder just at what “is.” The appreciation of the simple, the simple indulgence in the beauty of everything. Sehnsucht, for all it is.

Well I still can’t put it into words (though I’ll continue enjoying what it is by continuing to try), but every now and then I hear or read something which echoes it — some little sense of mystery and curiosity that lies a little above (beneath?) or behind (or within?) everything. Anyway, I watched Mr. Smith Goes to Washington last night — first time ever, embarrassingly — and I heard another echo in something “Jefferson Smith” said:

Jefferson Smith [Describing his home state]: I’ve been over every single foot of it. You could have no idea. You just have to see it for yourself. I don’t know. The prairies and wind leaning on the tall grass and lazy streams down in the meadows, angry little midgets of water up in the mountains, cattle moving down the slope against the sun. Campfires and snowdrifts. You know, everybody ought to have some of that sometime in his life. My dad had the right idea. And it all worked out. He used to say to me: ‘Son, don’t miss the wonders that surround you because every tree, every rock, every anthill, every star is filled with the wonders of nature.’ And he used to say to me: ‘Have you ever noticed how grateful you are to see daylight again after coming through a long dark tunnel?’ ‘Well,’ he’d say, ‘Always try to see life around ya as if you’d just come out of a tunnel.’ [emphasis mine]

Yeah. That’s a little more of it…

What I should have said:

It brings me great joy to announce that, having received the permission and blessing of her parents and mine, I have asked Megan E. to be my wife, and, happily, she has accepted. No dates or details have been set yet; please pray for us as we go through pre-marital counseling with pastor Ron, and as we begin to make our wedding plans. Thank you.

What I actually said/did:

Iht–(cough, hack)–uh, excuse me. (clears throat) Got a throat thing going on…uh, ahem, it brings me great joy…(reach for Megan’s hand to help her up and ‘display’ our togetherness…she hesitates…awkward pause continues)…(raspy:) to announce that…(I realize here that they’re not getting what I was trying to communicate without words…red face…)…(cough)…Megan and I are to be married! (meager applause)

Oh well. I tried.

You’ve probably heard about the new bestseller out there by Rhonda Byrne. If you haven’t, you probably will soon.

For a delightful little piece on The Secret and its effectiveness as a worldview, check out this article by Emily Youffe: I’ve Got The Secret. Revealing, and quite funny too.

Enjoy…