Universal or Unique?

In the recent issue of National Geographic there is an intriguing interview with an Egyptian dentist/author, Alaa Al Aswany. In it, he makes a comment that articulates something I have often wondered to myself.

"It's my opinion that religions are the same everywhere. They are a way to find God, a way to have positive values, to prove oneself as a good human being. I was born a Muslim, so I am Muslim. If I had been born Christian, I would have been Christian."

The danger is this: that our Christianity - if not taken seriously enough - could easily be or become nothing more than Aswany's thinly disguised humanism. Good people doing good things for good reasons may make a nice bedtime story, but there is in such a story nothing of the startling, violent event that is redemption: "the reckless, raging fury that they call the love of God."

For those of us who were born into the faith, it is searching to ask if we would still be Christians had we were born outside. Have we chosen God, or have we simply defaulted to Him? We are talking about the difference between what is True and what is trite - between what is Faith and what is merely fuzzy. We dare not be Christians because it is healthy or popular or sensible, and we dare not act as if we were even interested in those things. This is not the beat of a different drummer, this is another band altogether.

Not to say that Christianity is not human, only that it is not merely human. Jesus came to bring us life, and we must remember that it is life as He defined it, namely, Himself. Jesus did not come to make you happy, rich, smart, or even get you into heaven. He came to draw you into a relationship with Himself. This is the essential thing, "that I may know Him."

Either Christianity is just another trickle dripping into the universal pond, or it is the waterfall rushing off the edge of everything we call familiar into the depths of what is really real.

Google in Bible Times

"Then Darius the king made a decree, and search was made in the house of the rolls, where the treasures were laid up in Babylon. And there was found at Achmetha, in the palace that is in the province of the Medes, a roll..." - Ezra 6:1-2

Book Reviews, Round 2

I'll admit this is probably a bit boring, but it's a good exercise for me. It is helpful to regurgitate the gist of a book before it is entirely digested and irretrievable.

The Everlasting Man, G. K. Chesterton

Considered by many to be Chesterton's best work, I had high expectations for this book. Some of those expectations it met, some of them it didn't. Chesterton is, beyond doubt, a master with words. There are many passages that are difficult to match for sheer beauty of expression. That said, the prospective reader should be warned that the writing is somewhat denser than, say, that of Lewis; it doesn't exactly whisk you along. But the hardest roads often deliver the grandest vistas, and the attentive and diligent will be rewarded. Enough about the writing: perhaps I should tell you about the book.

Starting out, dealing with the origins both of civilisation and man himself, Chesterton presents a masterful, philosophical critique of evolutionary theory. "It is the simple truth that man does differ from the brutes in kind and not in degree; and the proof of it is here; that it sounds like a truism to say that the most primitive man drew a picture of a monkey and that it sounds like a joke to say that the most intelligent monkey drew a picture of a man. Something of division and disproportion has appeared; and it is unique. Art is the signature of man." (Pg. 34, Ch. I, The Man In The Cave) Here he delineates a crisp distinction in the matter of art, and again in the matter of spirituality: "It is of little use here to compare the head of the man with the head of the monkey, if it certainly never came into the head of the monkey to bury another monkey with nuts in his grave to help him towards a heavenly monkey-house." (Pg. 274, Appendix I, On Prehistoric Man)

From here, he goes on to examine the philosophical - not historical - development of civilisation. After defining and dealing with mythology at length, he establishes the uniqueness of the Christian God and prepares to introduce the story of Jesus, which, as told, is the most uncommon presentation of the gospel that I have ever heard; it is refreshing. Sometimes the old, old story needs to be dusted off a little. (Chesterton said as much in the introduction: "In the specially Christian case we have to react against the heavy bias of fatigue. It is almost impossible to make the facts vivid, because the facts are familiar; and for fallen men it is often true that familiarity is fatigue." (Pg. 17)) Consequently, it is worth reading the book for that chapter alone, ("The Strangest Story In The World,") which ends with what is very likely the most beautiful paragraph describing the resurrection ever written. "On the third day the friends of Christ coming at day-break to the place found the grave empty and the stone rolled away. In varying ways they realised the new wonder; but even they hardly realised that the world had died in the night. What they were looking at was the first day of a new creation, with a new heaven and a new earth; and in a semblance of a gardener God walked again in the garden, in the cool not of the evening but the dawn." (Pg. 213)


Heroes And Herectics, Barrows Dunham

If Chesterton was Solomon, Dunham must certainly be Rehoboam. The writing is similarly weighty, and also somewhat drier, or at least more concrete; names and places and dates abound. It requires a broader literary base than I possess to grasp the full import of what these authors have to say, as they are forever referencing man and myth and metaphor to illustrate their ideas; Dunham writes about Ancient Greece as if he has been there.

The premise of the book centers around the twin but distinct questions of heresy vs. orthodoxy and truth vs. error. "The question whether a sentence is true or false is a question in science, in logic, and in philosophy. But the question whether a sentence is orthodox or heretical is an organizational question... The sentences in [an] ideology are the ones that are there, whether they are true or not. Truth-falsity and orthodoxy-heresy are thus two different questions." (Pgs. 18-19, Ch. I, Man and Membership) Working off this idea, Dunham traces both threads through history for the bulk of the book, observing where they (in his view) marry and where they diverge.

It took me a long time to figure out where Dunham was coming from. Although there are numerous clues, it's not until the end of the book that you realize he is a full-fledged advocate of Darwinism, Socialism, and extreme Humanism. His appraisal of Christianity is weak, and his view of Jesus is careless and confused. (He portrays Jesus as a politically-minded social revolutionary, and believes that Paul espoused separate ideals.) In his Bibliographical Essay, Dunham notes that "The life of Jesus, the Bible, and the problems relating to both, ... are matters of much ... difficulty. A vast literature surrounds all these, such as only a scholar devoted to the subject can adequately know. I confess at once a limited acquaintance. My belief that the historical Jesus was leader of an insurrectionary movement comes directly from Archibald Robertson's The Origins of Christianity..." (Pg. 477) On this basis, it seems fair to dismiss Dunham as a scripturally-grounded authority; he essentially dismisses himself.

On a positive note, Dunham shows himself to be a firm proponent of freedom of conscience. "Coercion... cannot make a man hold 'good opinions' in the way in which good opinions ought to be held, by simple awareness of their truth and value." (Pg. 22, Ch. 1, Man and Membership) Remnant-minded Christians will resonate with His distaste for Geneva, the Inquisition, and other such institutions. It is unlikely that I will reread this book, but I will probably reference it occasionally. Highlighters are great.


Annapurna, Maurice Herzog

The runt of the litter, this mountaineering chronicle from the 1950's documents the first successful climb of an 8,000 meter mountain: Annapurna, Nepal, by a French expedition. Written by the expedition leader who was also one of the two men to summit, the book abounds in cheap sentiments and nostalgia. Notwithstanding, it remains classic mountaineering literature (I'm not exactly sure why). If you're not into mountains, don't bother; if you are, use plenty of salt.

The expedition itself lacked seriousness; it seemed half-witted and haphazard. The poor planning became evident in the frightful, badly-timed descent. Herzog paid for it, losing most of his fingers and toes to frostbite and suppurating all over India on the return trip.

This is my third mountaineering book, (behind Teewinot by Jack Turner and Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer.) I don't think I'll read any more. They make me sick.


On Writing Well, William Zinsser

I love reading books on writing because they are always written so precisely. Good writers know what they are doing and they do it well.

This little volume is no exception - guaranteed to make you chuckle, think, and (Oh my, I almost forgot!) write better to boot. Zinsser makes no effort to hide the zeal he has for his craft, and, as is typical of a healthy zealot, he occasionally flares up in righteous anger against vague, stuffy, insecure writing.

If you write, read it. If you don't write, you ought to.

Eureka!

Doing nothing is tiring business. It will be nice to get back to working and hiking, and eating because I’m hungry, not because there’s nothing else to do.

It was my lot to pilot the Silver Bullet across lovely Nevada, from Scipio, Utah, to Lee Vining, California. (I think they figured that my following distance tended to be better in Nevada: there’s no one to follow.)

I learned several things on this trip, first and foremost being that I’m much more of a Californian than I had previously thought. No chiggers, no cicadas, no blasted humidity, and I can go to a salad bar whenever I want to. Besides, we have real mountains here, not just places where the ground happens to be lumpy.

I also learned that there are hills in Kansas, that Colorado can be warm, and that one should never leave home without at least one Rich Mullins album.

The Real Humanists

Traveling always confronts me with the desperate state of the human condition. Pumping gas in New Mexico, shopping a Super Wal-Mart in Arkansas, or just driving down the 40, the vast need for the Gospel is inescapable. There is a famine in the land.

It seems to me that, in our culture, some of the prime causes of this sickness are the twin demons of materialism and evolutionary thinking. Society has made a sorry bargain: denying the spirituality of the individual, they work to distance themselves from God. How long can you be told that you are simply an advanced monkey before you begin to believe it? Such thinking may exempt you from morals, yes, but it also exempts you from the passion and dignity you have as a spiritual being.

I search people's eyes, looking for some sensitivity, some animation, some sapience - that spiritual spark that has rightly related itself to the sparrows. It is frightening to be confronted with the echoing emptiness of a soul denied wings, or, for that matter, denied existence. Spirituality is not bondage, it is liberation. Shame on the Church for showing the world otherwise for so many centuries.

We must remind people that they have a soul; indeed, they are made in the image of God. As it says in Job, "There is a spirit in man," or in Psalms, "You are Gods." To love your neighbor means, in part, to help him "recognize" himself as a moral, dynamic, spiritual identity.

Sometimes it makes me wonder who the real humanists are.

After God's Own Heart?

As New Covenant Christians, most of us are content with picturing the church as the house of God. Living stones, (1 Peter 2:5), built upon the foundation of Jesus Christ, (1 Corinthians 3:11), providing a resting-place for God. (Psalm 132:13-14, Matthew 18:20). In line with the great commission, the church rightfully occupies a prominent place in our lives. Matters of discipleship and community are inseparable from the faith.

As I discuss the issue of violence in the Kingdom God with people, it is common to hear appeals to King David as “a man after God’s own heart,” attempting to reconcile the use of the sword with godliness. While it stands that David was a military man, this is not the whole story. Besides living under a different covenant, he was specifically denied the right to take an active part in building God’s house.

“And David said to Solomon, My son, as for me, it was in my mind to build an house unto the name of the Lord my God: but the word of the Lord came to me, saying, ‘Thou has shed blood abundantly, and hast made great wars: thou shalt not build an house unto my name, because thou hast shed much blood upon the earth in my sight.’” - 1 Chronicles 22:7-8

What is so significant about this? Only that here, we have a behind-the-scenes glimpse of God’s eternal heart, right in the midst of the old covenant. In Ezekiel 33:11, Ezekiel 18:32, and Lamentations 3:33, the Lord makes it abundantly clear that destruction is not something He does for recreation. In short, He takes no rest in violence.

Accordingly, I maintain that the New Covenant was constructed without a shred of dependence upon force of arms. This does not mean the church is passive, it just means we fight differently. (2 Corinthians 10:3-5, John 18:36) “Mercy rejoices against judgment.”

Adventures in Armadillodom

The breakfast table had grown quiet, attention being focused on the reading of a chapter from the Proverbs. Various ones unhurriedly poured themselves half glasses of orange juice or half mugs of coffee. Slowly at first, a stir developed around the east end of the table - whispering, peering through the blind slats. The reading paused, and Roger removed his glasses. “What is it?” "In the backyard. It’s an armadillo.” “Yes, look!” Someone dissented, “No, it’s not. Just a rabbit.”

Everyone looked closer, and those who could not see from where they were left their places at the table and moved to the window. The consensus confirmed the identification: a genuine 9-banded armadillo. (The 9-banded is the most widespread member of the species, and is the only one found in North America.)

Often referred to as “the Texas speed bump,” the animal unfortunately does not possess a very fast reaction time and is often seen flattened on the roadside. Its tendency to jump straight up in the air when surprised further exposes the the animal to harm when you split the tires. Texans have made it their state small mammal as a penance.

Our little armored friend seemed to be minding his own business, just armadilloing about and looking for bugs. What becomes problematic for farmers is their highly developed digging skill. Anyone who has studied or kept cattle or other livestock will readily recognize that an abrupt twelve inch hole in the middle of the pasture cannot be a good thing.

Roger, like an emperor disturbed by a pesky invasion, went off to retrieve a shotgun. Some of the boys pulled on shoes or boots to join in the fray. The armadillo remained, for the time being, oblivious. Good bugs.

Shotgun in hand, Roger descended the side porch steps. The invader was inside the fence, about fifty feet away. Landon returned from the barn with a pitchfork, and the contest began.

Though not entirely blind, the species’ eyesight is less than brilliant. Dimly sensing that something was amiss, the armadillo retreated downhill into taller grass, out of the open. Bryson provided updates on his location and called out instructions. Stealthily, Landon cut around below him to cut off the escape. There he goes – the strings reached a crescendo – the pitchfork came down – the cymbals crashed!

The armadillo dashed toward the fence. The shotgun cracked. Blue smoke. Quiet. Roger peered into the grass. It was a small one, probably rather young. He picked it up by the tail and brought it over to the porch steps. It is no testimony to the sanity of Texans that they host beauty contests for these creatures. They are reported to be difficult to domesticate, (the armadillos, not the Texans,) which implies that some poor soul has tried to do so. By contrast, in Maine, where the brisk Atlantic air clears the mind regularly, it’s illegal to own one.

Late for School

Not having found the opportunity to post for awhile, I have really missed my little project. I'm secretly hopeful that some of you have, too. Please excuse my tardiness, as it is truly unavoidable under the circumstances.

I realized, within the first hour on the road, that I was in need of a dictionary to aid my reading. Dunham seemed a rather learned man, and, as is a sorry habit of many learned men, was generally loath to allow the reader to forget his caste and (heavens no!) just read along undisturbed. A strategic rest stop in front of a Berean afforded me some welcome help from Webster, but it yet escapes me why one would write "desuetude" instead of simply "disuse," and the watery "pellucid" seems a dubious improvement over the biting "lucid." Tendentious, opprobrious, veracious, and various other fastidious, insidious nouns continually robbed my unsuspecting train of thought, and such words don't look any shorter when bouncing along at 75 mph in the back of the van with a flashlight in your mouth.

Chesterton is offering little respite: my vocabulary continues to be bloated beyond recognition. Just today we encountered "somnambulist" (sleepwalker), "supercilious" (arrogant), and "tautology" (repitition), to name a few. I am not always in the mood to look up words while reading, so I am pushing it as far as it will go.

In between my frolicking escapades into higher education, I was able to try my hand at water-skiing. I was somewhat surprised to actually like it, not usually caring much for the aquatic side of things. I'll spare you the details, as it is really not that interesting unless you've done it.

Regarding culinary concerns, David and I are a little disgruntled with what passes for salad here in the south. Picture a cold bed of iceberg, a few chunks of mealy tomato, and some wispy shreds of cheddar cheese. The whole affair is sadly lacking in chlorophyll. Around here, it seems that the term "down-home cooking" is a nice way of saying that everything is brown.

Not to complain, mind you. We have been treated the last few days to some excellent eating at the home of some Missouri friends, and I'm still amazed how good Mom's lasagne can taste after trucking it 40 hours through the desert. It's humbling when the only thing you yourself can cook is Top Ramen.

Stay tuned for an upcoming account on "The Shooting of the Armadillo."

"Road Blog!"

In about 16 hours, the big grey van will roll down the driveway, bound for Arkansas. Some friends were kind enough to loan us a small cargo trailer, and we are busily filling it up with clothes to wear and fun things to do and yummy things to eat. This time I got the easy job: assemble the travel toolkit. Comprised of a flashlight, flares, jumper cables, two sizes of channel-locks, duct tape, and sundry other items, it all packs nicely into a little orange box, with the exception of the fire extinguisher and wheel lug wrench.

No trip preparations are complete without a painstakingly selected reading menu. Here's what my diet will consist of for the next few weeks - about 1,343 pages in all:

Heroes And Heretics - Barrows Dunham
The Complete Book Of Chess Strategy - Jeremy Silman
The Everlasting Man - G. K. Chesterton
Annapurna - Maurice Herzog

My Bible is also on the stack, along with a journal - just in case any thoughts pop into my head that are worth writing down. The iPod is staying home.

Aside from taking Jesse up Half Dome for his 13th, I'm pretty wound down due to not working most of July. I have enjoyed very much the time to rest and read and think, and the blog (Dad calls it "posting into the ether") has been more fun than I expected. (Note to self: be careful to avoid those insidious "idle words." Mt. 12:36)

As always, your prayer is appreciated. We want to be "redeeming the time, because the days are evil." Online access while traveling is often sketchy. I will, however, make an attempt to share some thoughts from the road and hopefully some cups of cold water.

Meekness

"But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace." - Psalms 37:11

Moses is described in Numbers 12:3 as the meekest man on earth. When I stop to ponder his life and the secret to his lowly greatness, a singular characteristic rises to the surface. I hope to skim this off and apply it to my own life.

Moses had a bulletproof confidence in God that was independent of the opinions others held about him. He had nothing to prove, nothing to lose. I fight and argue and push my views, trying to make up for a missing sense of security. Moses found his security in the God he served: nothing could change that, and he knew it.

Yesterday, reading through John 5 and minding my own business, this verse came around the corner and slapped me in the face. "How can ye believe, which receive honour one of another, and seek not the honour that comes from God only?" (John 5:44) I like the approval of men. I like it a lot. But Jesus wants nothing less than our complete devotion to Him, free from the distractions inherent in trying to impress others.

It goes deeper than just being a show-off. Whenever I am anxious, or frustrated, or unkind, it betrays an unhealthy preoccupation with my self-image. Meekness is being humble enough to care what other people think without being vain enough to take it personally.

Do I love like this?

We were in a prison cell; some 30 or 40 prisoners. The door was unlocked, and the guards pushed in a new prisoner. He was dirty like we were. He was shorn and had the striped uniform of a prisoner. In the half darkness, we did not recognize him until someone exclaimed, "This is Captian Popescu!"

Captain Popescu had been one of the worst torturers of the Christians. He had beaten and tortured even some of us who were now in the same cell with him. We wondered how he had become a prisoner of the communists and how he had been put in a prison cell reserved for Christians. We surrounded him and asked him his story.

With tears in his eyes, he told us that as he sat in his office a few months earlier, a soldier on duty knocked at the door and said, "Outside is a boy of 12 or 13 who has a flower for your wife." The captain scratched his head. He did not remember that it was his wife's birthday, but in any case, he allowed the boy to enter. The boy entered with the flower in his hand, very shy, but very decided, and said, "Captain, you are the one who has put my father and mother in prison. Today is my mother's birthday. I have the habit every year on this day, out of my little pocket money, to buy a flower for her. Because of you, I have no mother to gladden today. But my mother is a Christian, and she taught me since I was a little child to love my enemies, and to reward evil with good. I thought to give joy to the mother of your children. Please take this flower to your wife and tell her about my love and about the love of Christ."

It was too much even for a communist torturer. As a creature of God, he also had been enlightened with the light which enlightens every man who comes into this world. (John 1:9) He embraced the child. He could not beat any more. He could not torture any more. He was no longer useful as an officer of the communist secret police. He came to suffer together with the children of God and rejoiced in his new life. Let us have before our eyes the love of Christ, who saved us. Let us continue to simply believe in love.

-If Prison Walls Could Speak, by Richard Wurmbrand, Paraphrased

This was taken from the monthly newsletter of Voice of the Martyrs, an organization devoted to strengthening and supporting the persecuted church. Hebrews 13:3 admonishes us to "Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them; and them which suffer adversity, as being yourselves also in the body." To learn more about Voice of the Martyrs or sign up for their newsletter, go to www.persecution.com