The Gospel According to George Bailey

George learns he won't be leaving Bedford Falls after all

In my recent post about the beginning of my journey away from religiously inspired moderate scroogehood, I told of my frustration with the conclusion of It's A Wonderful Life and its moral lesson "no man is a failure who has friends." For such a feel good movie, where does that leave those who have no friends, or those who think or feel that they have no friends? The question I was led to ask is "How does George come to have so many friends?" As I considered the plot of the movie, I realized that more significant than the fact that George has friends is that he makes friends: he continually sacrifices his own desires and dreams for the sake of his community, and those sacrifices win the friendship and respect of everyone in town. I began to see the movie as a vivid illustration of the words of Jesus, that "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13 KJV). When I watched the film through that lens, I saw more clearly George's inner conflict at each point he is called on to sacrifice for those around him, and was most moved by those moments of self-denial. I'd also always appreciated George's relationship with his father; the first moment in the movie that always grabs me emotionally is when George doesn't know what to do when Mr. Gower the druggist unwittingly puts poison in pills for a patient. He glances at a cigarette ad on the wall of the store which reads "Ask Dad, he knows." It's such a trite maxim, but moving for me, as one who identifies so much with George, and has often turned to my dad in moments of confusion.

Apparently he doesn't know about lung health

But George Bailey's relationship with his father Peter isn't just a sentimental embellishment to the story, it's actually just as central to the plot as George's self-sacrifice: his two-fold concern in all his painful decisions is the good of the community and his determination to honor his father by preserving the family business. That sounds like the one who spoke the words quoted above about the greatest love. Could it be that George Bailey's wonderful life is a contemporary portrait of the most wonderful life of all? Consider a few other details of the film: the antagonist of the story, Mr. Potter, takes over the entire town during the depression, except one institution, the Bailey Brothers Building and Loan, and on one occasion, tempts George himself with the offer of a job. But his masterstroke against George and the building and loan is his theft of $8000 intended for deposit in the bank Mr. Potter owns. Potter thinks he has George beat, and even in George's desperation, Potter feigns lawful indignation while George responds with grace to his question about what happened to the $8000: "I lost the money." But George hadn't lost the money; his Uncle Billy had absentmindedly given it to Potter in a brief encounter in the bank. George takes the blame, while inwardly he is driven to the brink of despair.

"I lost the money."

He stumbles into Martini's bar, where he softly cries, "Dear Father in heaven, I'm not a praying man, but if you're up there, show me the way...I'm at the end of my rope." Ten seconds later, he's answered with a punch in the face, and says, "That's what I get for praying." In despair, he stands on the bridge over the icy river, contemplating suicide, when Clarence, his guardian angel, comes to his rescue. But his method of rescue is telling: he doesn't stop him directly, he dives in himself, knowing that George will act in character, and jump in to save him. Though frustrated and flawed, when tested, George always lays down his life for others. Even afterward, when talking with Clarence, George thinks it'd be best for his family and friends if he'd never been born. In one sense, this is a self-absorbed thought of despair, but at another level, it is George's ultimate act of self-sacrifice. In Clarence's granting George a temporary view of his wish, he descends into the hell of Pottersville, where Bedford Falls is twisted into a cesspool of lust, greed, and violence. This vision awakens George, who responds by crying out "I want to live again!" And so through Potter's darkest scheme that temporarily destroys George, George and the community he loves win their ultimate triumph, as the people pray for him in his distress, and come to give selflessly to save the Building and Loan. 


For some readers, this perspective on the plot probably makes clear what I'm seeing in the film. Some may think I'm just an over-imaginative Christian who listens to too many Tim Keller sermons. That's probably true, but the parallels in this story with the suffering, death, and resurrection of Christ are quite remarkable. Consider several points of similarity:

• Jesus referred ultimately to himself in John 15:13, and the rest of Scripture bears abundant witness to the selfless love of Jesus in his offering himself for our sins (Jn 3:16; Rom 5:7-8; Eph 5:2; 1 Jn 4:9-10)
• As George always sacrifices for his father's business, Jesus sought his Father's honor and will in everything he did in life and death (Mt 26:39; Jn 5:19, 23; 6:38; 17:4)
• As George continually fights against and resists Mr. Potter's evil schemes, so Jesus did battle with the devil in his temptation and works (Mt 4:1-11; Lk 10:18; Jn 16:11; Heb 2:14; 1 Jn 3:8)



George's Gethsemane

• As George takes the blame for the lost money before Potter, so Jesus "bore the iniquity of many" (Is 53:5-6, 10-12) and prayed for the forgiveness of those who crucified him (Lk 23:34).

• As George, hunched over a drink and drenched in sweat, prays to the Father for help and is answered with a punch in the face, so Jesus in his agony cried out to the Father "take this cup from me" as "his sweat became like great drops of blood falling to the ground," and immediately afterward he was met by Judas and the soldiers who arrested him (Lk 22:41-54).
• As George helps others even as he is "dying" (his dive to save Clarence, his thought that everyone would be better off if he'd never been born, his concern for all those he loved when he was in Pottersville), so Jesus looked in pity on others as he died the most pitiable death (Lk 23:28, 34, 43; Jn 19:26-27)
• As George temporarily enters the degenerate Pottersville, the world in which he was never born, so Jesus, according to the apostles' creed, "descended into hell" after his crucifixion (Eph 4:9-10; 1 Pet 3:18-19; this point is disputed by theologians. See articles by Grudem and Scaer). 
• As George's despair and "death" are his greatest defeat from Potter but also his greatest triumph, so Jesus' agony and crucifixion are his greatest defeat at the hands of the devil, but also his triumph over the devil (Gen 3:15; Lk 22:3; Jn 12:31; 13:2, 27; 16:11; Col 2:15; Heb 2:14).
• As George, after his restoration to life, returns home first (except for the authorities and his children--not sure how they fit in yet) and was followed by all the people for whom he sacrificed, who return to him all the gifts he'd first given to them, after which his brother rightly proposes a toast to "my big brother George, the richest man in town," so Jesus is described as the "the beginning, the firstborn from the dead" (Col 1:18; cf. 1 Cor 15:20-24) who ascended, "receiving gifts among men" (Ps. 68:18; and giving them, cf. Eph 4:7-12), so that in his triumph he "divides the spoil with the strong" (Is 53:12) and receives supremacy over all things (Mt 28:18; Eph 1:20-23; Php 2:9; Col 1:18; 2:10; Heb 1:4).
• Though she's his wife in the film, Mary is the steady heroine of the story, and her odd position in the final scene, standing on a chair, hands folded in a saintly pose, asks for commentary from my Catholic brethren. Probably also the part about George lassoing the moon so she can eat it and moonbeams can come out of her hair and fingers and toes. I'm Protestant and don't know about that stuff because it ain't in the Bible. :-)

While the surface theology of guardian angels in the form of talking galaxies and getting wings when bells ring is almost obnoxiously hokey, the subtle but pervasive portrayal of the humiliation of the Son of God is profoundly Christian. As I see it, It's A Wonderful Life is the gospel of Christ in terms of 20th century American middle class culture, and our identification with and admiration of George Bailey is a small but real indication that Jesus is truly the "dear desire of every nation," as we often sing in this season. 


The question that remains is whether these things written in by the filmmakers, or can someone who knows the Bible well enough read the gospel into anything? The latter might be true, but in this case, I think the former is more accurate. Here are a few subtle but concrete details of the movie that make me think the writers intended the story to be a picture of the gospel:

• The slum owned by Mr. Potter is called "Potter's Field." This is the name of the plot of ground Judas purchased with the money he received for betraying Jesus, where he also hanged himself (Mt 27:3-10; Acts 1:18-19).
• Though their roles in the story are not exactly parallel, there are characters named Mary, Joseph, and Peter.
• As the angels converse in the beginning of the movie, they say about the night of George's wishing he'd never been born, "tonight's his crucial night." Interesting in this perspective.
• As George talks to his dad at the dinner table the night he has the stroke while George is at the dance, Peter tells him "George, you were born older." He means that George has always fit the role of older brother, but if George is a Christ figure, this might allude to Micah 5:2, the prophecy of Messiah's birth in Bethlehem: "But you, O Bethlehem...from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel, whose coming forth is from of old, from ancient days."
• Perhaps the clearest indication of the Christological nature of the story are the presence of "O Come, All Ye Faithful" in the opening scene, as George's friends pray for him, and the singing of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" in the closing scene. In traditional Christmas Eve services, these are the opening and closing carols. 
• As they sing the closing carol, something very significant happens as they sing the words "God and sinners reconciled..." If you want to know what it is, you'll have to watch the movie again. You wouldn't want me to give it all away, would you?

Seven Swans a-swimming

I realize that most people don't watch Christmas movies after Christmas day. Oddly, even in my days of stoicism about the celebration of Christmas, I was adamant that if we're going to celebrate it, we should celebrate all twelve days, with Epiphany at the end, as the more ancient branches of the church traditionally observe it. It breaks my heart to see Christmas trees at the curb before New Year's. I've never watched the movie after Christmas Day, but with Auld Langsyne at the end, it would make a fitting close to the seventh day of Christmas, and to the year.

This is not the end of the story of my adoption of the celebration of Christmas, but it gets at the question I'll try to answer next time: why do all the best-loved Christmas movies and television specials feature a grumpy, ungrateful, or angry person who is delivered into gratitude and rejoicing? Since Charlie Brown is the only one of these I'm thinking of that is set after 1960, only Charles Schultz uses the contemporary term "depressed." But the theme is the same from A Christmas Carol to It's a Wonderful Life to Miracle on 34th Street to A Charlie Brown Christmas to A Christmas Story (even the old man finally smiles when the duck smiles at him before being decapitated in the Chinese restaurant). The answer to this question leads to the reason why I think it's so fitting that we remember the birth of Jesus Christ at this time of year. Merry Seventh Day of Christmas!

Dead Preachers Society: Session 3 Notes

I'm meeting with some friends to read Jonathan Edwards' typological writings, vol. 11 of the Yale Edition of his works. I decided I'd post my notes on our last meeting and some additional thoughts from the reading here in case anyone finds them interesting. This was originally an email to the group.

Ray, Andy, Daniel, and I discussed pp. 50-93 of Edwards' vol. 11. I asked why Edwards saw shadows of spiritual truth in the created world, and whether he saw this perspective as necessary. We all noted that the inspired biblical authors saw things this way, and that the Scriptures are not exhaustive, but rather a springboard to understand everything as designed by God to communicate truth to our minds. Ray noted that Edwards was mindful of God in the theater of nature, and Andy mentioned how he found Edwards a good balance to his reaction against over-spiritualization (a reaction we've probably all had to the excess of "God moments" zealous naivete often sees). 

I asked which examples of Edwards were particularly compelling. Several favorites were the jealous love of a husband as particularly reflective of the love of Christ for the church (no. 32), the customs of triumphant Roman armies as a picture of Christ's triumphant entry into heaven (no. 81), and the height of the heavens above the earth that shows the surpassing worth of heavenly pleasures compared to earthly ones. Daniel, Andy, and Ray commented that Edwards extended the the Reformed understanding of the sacraments to all of creation...small "s" sacraments, that is. I sat and learned.

Andy admitted he was challenged to greater wakefulness by Edwards' example; as professional religious people, we're often like Eli with Hannah, Zechariah (father of John the Baptist) with the angel in the temple, and the woman in prayer with Peter at the gate in Acts. Did someone mention Mary and Martha with Jesus, too?  I.e., we're so caught up in our habitual service that we become myopic and miss the presence and works of God that are right in front of us. Ray said the three of them should write sermons on those texts and "take this on the road". I'd go to that revival. 

I'll apply that by confessing that as we discussed these things, I was distracted by three things I was trying to do, all Martha-like: finish the reading (it was only 2 pages, but still...), write out some good questions for discussion, and take notes on what was being said. If Edwards had been with us, he'd have said that my distraction was a type of the very thing we were discussing: I was distracted from the grace of exchanging ideas by my anxiety to make sure I had all my ideas organized for the exchange. I'm not sure what he'd say about the fact that I was delayed to the meeting because I lost my wallet at my sister's house in Charleston; I'd actually put it in my travel kit so I wouldn't lose it...we should come up with a name for this phenomenon. How about "perfectionistic irony"? I for one am persuaded that God often speaks in this manner providentially, that he accompanies insight into his written word with corresponding illustrations, often in our immediate circumstances. I mentioned the presence of a deer in the grocery store a few weeks back when I'd been pondering "I adjure you by the gazelles or does of the field..." in Song of Songs. 

Okay, this is no longer brief. Daniel asked if Edwards presupposed or predicted Van Tilian presuppositionalism. Ray mentioned that for communists, looking at the material world often broke them of their atheism. 

Definitely some good trajectories of thought to explore further. Here are some others that I had in mind that the river of our collective thoughts avoided:

1. Is Edwards correct in thinking this way? Why/not? Edwards may be the father of American Evangelicalism, but he's not our pope, so let's think critically about his ideas. Maybe we can do this by picking the example that made us laugh the loudest as we read. 

2. Edwards mentions in no. 95 that the cursing of the serpent in crawling in the dust represents the curse on the devil, and thus "proves that outward things are ordered as they be, to that end that they might be images of spiritual things" (88). This raises some questions of enormous importance in my mind...If the serpent and devil in Gen 3 are an example of type and antitype conjoining, is there a pattern or rule to when type and antitype conjoin in Scripture? (Edwards also mentions the sunrise/set with the death and resurrection of Christ, pp. 64-65, no. 50, nt. 2. maybe others too). Also, is everything in Eden typical and sacramental? It seems at least the trees, the serpent, Adam's sin, and Adam and Eve's nakedness are. That is, they're both literal and representing deeper spiritual things. Or perhaps in Eden there was a kind of hyper-typical nature to all of these things, so that what we perceive as "types" of spiritual things actually were (pre-fall) the very things they would later typify. Curious in this light and in view of Edwards' thoughts on rivers (p. 77, no. 77, which numbers seem to typify the perfection of the analogy of God's providence) is the fact that the river out of Eden splits into four rivers typical of God's presence as the fountain of life before the fall (as opposed to rivers joining and flowing into the sea/streams of providence joining to flow into God after the fall)? Just a thought, but if that is true, are the trees and river and etc. in the new heavens and earth also restored to their (hyper?) typical/sacramental nature? Does this get at the "groaning" of creation subject to futility in Romans 8? I.e., is the futility, in part, that it no longer bears this sacramental nature? 

Also interesting in this connection are the mention of Jesus' side as proof to Thomas and his breathing on them in Jn 20, in light of God's creation of man by breathing into his nostrils, and woman from the side of man. Edwards p. 70-71, nos. 62-63 got me thinking this way.  

3. p. 57, no. 26, Edwards says of Jesus' use of a tree known by its fruit as "not merely mentioned as illustrations of his meaning, but as illustrations and evidences of the truth of what he says" (emphasis mine). Are there other examples of this in Scripture? No. 7 seems to be similar re: 1 Cor 15:36

4. page 74, no. 70, By types in creation "we may as it were hear God speaking to us." Should we then follow Edwards' lead as a kind of spiritual discipline? In light of no. 77, the river as God's providence, what is typified by a tree planted by streams of water (Ps. 1)? Does day and night meditation on the word lead to a greater connection to the streams of providence in our lives, so that we do truly see correlation between peculiar turns of providence and objective truth we see in the word, and thus hear God speaking to us, as Edwards says?   

5. page 80, no. 78: the course of sap/life in trees is reverse of the flow of water in rivers, which represents the providence of God in the church in giving life through the trunk of Christ. Edwards doesn't mention my thought from point 4 above, but could it be that the church is a macro-example of what we are to be individually? I.e., specially favored by providence (cf. Eph 1, called according to his purpose who works all things...) to hear God speaking in Christ and Scripture, and for the word we hear to correspond with the collective force of God's word to us in everything we've experienced. That thought needs better words. 

6. page 85, no. 85: sunrise as both resurrection and the Gospel dispensation. What then of multiple senses applied to one object? So too seas/lakes are God's wrath (nos. 27, 64), and in relation to rivers, God himself (no. 77). What up with that?

The Light Shines in the Darkness...

In my more puritanical days, I was at best ambivalent about the observation of Christmas on December 25, and at worst cynical. This was because, in all likelihood, Jesus was not born on December 25. In addition, many of the traditions now associated with the observation of Christmas have pagan origins, and those whom I looked to as theological forebears were opposed to Catholic holy days. Charles Spurgeon expresses this view well in the first half of this paragraph from a sermon preached December 23, 1855:

This is the season of the year when, whether we wish it or not, we are compelled to think of the birth of Christ. I hold it to be one of the greatest absurdities under heaven to think that there is any religion in keeping Christmas-day. There are no probabilities whatever that our Saviour Jesus Christ was born on that day, and the observance of it is purely of Popish origin; doubtless those who are 
Catholics have a right to hallow it, but I do not see how consistent Protestants can account it in the least sacred. However, I wish there were ten or a dozen Christmas-days in the year; for there is work enough in the world, and a little more rest would not hurt labouring people. Christmas-day is really a boon to us; particularly as it enables us to assemble round the family hearth and meet our friends once more. Still, although we do not fall exactly in the track of other people, I see no harm in thinking of the incarnation and birth of the Lord Jesus. (emphasis mine. HT: Tim Challies)

This view is not without biblical warrant either, depending on how we interpret texts such as these:

Therefore let no one pass judgment on you in questions of food and drink, or with regard to a festival or a new moon or a Sabbath. These are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ. (Colossians 2:16-17)

But now that you have come to know God, or rather to be known by God, how can you turn back again to the weak and worthless elementary principles of the world, whose slaves you want to be once more? You observe days and months and seasons and years! I am afraid I may have labored over you in vain. (Galatians 4:9-11)

presenting the treasures of Kidger's book, Christmas 2004

For a few years in the early 2000s, though I didn't spread tidings of "Bah! Humbug!", I was rather stoic about the remembrance of Jesus' birth on December 25. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of this, I was intrigued to study the origins of Christmas. My interest in astronomy already made me an observer of equinoxes and solstices, first in choosing those dates to cut my hair or shave my beard, and later with solstice parties, especially the winter solstice. For several years at Christmas I had a fascination with astronomical theories about the star of Bethlehem. I was glad to find that several professional astronomers had researched the matter and proposed plausible theories. As I remember now, the best book I read on the matter concluded that it was a conjunction of several planets in a constellation that was somehow associated with the Jewish nation. It was Mark Kidger's The Star of Bethlehem: An Astronomer's View; I also read some of Michael Molnar's The Star of Bethlehem. I don't recall if I finished either of the books, as is my custom, but they were both great reads. Recently I came across a more thorough explanation of the "signs in the heavens" surrounding both the birth and death of Jesus. Rick Larson, who is a doctor by profession and an amateur astronomer, makes a compelling case:



My former practice at solstice parties was to show It's A Wonderful Life. When my first attempt to show the film at a solstice party in Rock Hill was overruled in favor of a Jim Carrey slapstick, I decided maybe I'm the only one who cares to celebrate the solstice, or watch sappy Jimmy Stewart movies, or maybe both. So after 2005, I observed the solstice and watched my favorite movie alone, which probably saved me from a good deal of embarrassment since I tend to tear up a few dozen times every time I watch it. In spite of this, it's not a good movie to watch alone, because it concludes with a message that "no man is a failure who has friends." What a letdown. After identifying so much with George Bailey, the frustrated idealist who never gets to pursue his dreams, I looked around at the end of the movie and felt like I had no friends. But in the darkness of self-pity I started to ask questions, and that's when light dawned on a much deeper significance to George Bailey's character. Not only that, but pursuing that line of thought has led me to a new understanding of the significance of this time of year that persuades me that we should celebrate the birth of Christ on December 25. That will have to wait for another post; for now I'll let you laugh at my hokey tastes in film.

A Broken Record

As the calendar goes, yesterday I was a third of a century old. It was a typical day I suppose. While packing a box with newspaper at work, I came across Peggy Noonan's column from the April 30 Wall Street Journal: "Make John Paul II a Saint". I was intrigued that he was laid to rest April 8, 2005, which by the calendar was exactly 6 and 2/3 years ago. Speaking of 33 and 1/3, I'm turning into a broken record with all my talk about threes, but I figure this would be a good time to finish my thoughts on the significance of the number three as it's been repeatedly brought to my attention this year. I feel like I'm giving an academic lecture on an episode of Sesame Street. Maybe so. I'm just trying to understand and explain what I've seen. My understanding is based on the belief that God is both infinite and personal, and that He has spoken and continues to speak. He's spoken primarily and most clearly in His Son as He is presented in Scripture, but He also speaks continually, though not as definitively, through creation and providence and conscience. Apparently God has given me the ability (or handicap, depending on which way I look at it) to spatially perceive numbers, dates, and many quantifiable aspects of reality, and it seems He's chosen to speak to me through them of late.

What's He saying? I don't know, but I have theories. Most generally, it seems the number three in some sense reflects the nature of God, in that He exists eternally in three distinct persons who are nevertheless of one being or substance. The Trinity is a mystery that can't be fully grasped by finite human minds, and there's no adequate analogy we can devise to illustrate Him. But it seems to me that the nature of the number three, while not illustrating the Trinity, correlates with God's triune nature in peculiar ways. First, the nature of a third: it is an endlessly repeating number (.3333...) in which each digit calls attention to the nature of the whole from which it came. Each of the three parts is an endless string of "threeness", if you will. To be clear, the Father, Son, and Spirit are not "parts" of God; the one essence of God is not divided between the three persons. But the correlation between thirds and the nature of the Trinity lies in their infinity: at no point could the decimal end or change to a two or four and still be a third; and in their reflection of the whole: just as the Father, Son, and Spirit eternally glorify each other, so each of these thirds endlessly "glorifies" the "threeness" of the whole.

Of course, this only works in base ten, and that we use base ten is only due to the fact that we "happen" to have ten fingers and ten toes. Perhaps, but interesting things also happen in other bases: 1/3 in binary, which would be expressed 1/11, equals .010101...; in base 3, .1; in base 4, .11111... (link shows 1/4+1/16+1/64+1/256+1/1024, which are the base ten equivalents of the first five decimal places in base four); in base 5, .131313...; in base 6, .2; in base 7, .22222...; in base 8, .252525...; in base 9, .3. A question that I'm curious to investigate is whether there is any integer n less than 10 such that 1/n in any base yields a value of .nnnnnn.... I'm thinking there's not, but I'm not sure. My brain is starting to hurt. All of this makes me want to study number theory, but only a little. And I'm glad that we all have ten fingers.

More specifically, it seems that God has spoken through the conspicuous appearance of threes to alert me to His providential guidance of my life. In my post summarizing the odd numeric occurrences, I forgot to mention how clearly I was reminded of this the day after my accident in September. When my friend Noreen had a very serious accident in June, I mentioned the comfort for riding on dangerous roads I find in the truth expressed in the Heidelberg Catechism:

1. Q. What is your only comfort in life and death?A. That I, with body and soul, both in life and death, am not my own, but belong unto my faithful Savior Jesus Christ; who with his precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and delivered me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me that without the will of my heavenly Father not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must be subservient to my salvation, wherefore by his Holy Spirit he also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready, henceforth, to live unto him.

It was no small comfort to me on Sunday, September 11, when we read this confession of faith as I was still stiff and sore from the previous day's wreck. I believed that truth in June, but in September I saw it. And it seemed clear that my frustrations that culminated in the accident were a pattern of providence calling me to focus on other things, particularly whether my interest in theology and biblical studies was to become a vocation again rather than just a hobby.

Until now I've not written about another theme that's been intertwined with the conspicuous numbers. What I didn't say before about my contract negotiation with Paul over pancakes was that I was distracted the whole time we talked by insights I wanted to share from the Old Testament. I couldn't stop talking about Elisha and Isaac as types of Jesus; the fact that he was buying me a bike was relatively boring news. About six months later, I returned to the same IHOP and sat across from Dick Belcher of RTS to learn about doctoral studies at Westminster Theological Seminary. During our conversation, into the restaurant walked Denis Regan, who in November 2007 bought a Litespeed from the bike shop and turned that job from a temporary stop gap into a potential career. I went back to the same IHOP Thursday October 13, 33 days after my accident, where Paul and I again discussed the things of the Lord after a brilliant lecture from Kirk Irwin on the nature of beauty, which concluded with the suggestion that beauty is the intersection of truth, goodness, mystery, and timing. Fast forward to November 10, when I was facing a decision about which direction to go: bike shop long term, or theology and biblical studies. Through a peculiar combination of illustrative events at work and an epiphany of freedom from the fear of regret, I decided to intentionally head toward theology. I wrote out the reasons in an email in case I should forget, and sent it to myself. A half hour later, the next email into my box was from Associate Pastor Mel Wines asking if I'd like to teach an adult Sunday School class. I've not taught since I finished teaching at WCCS four and a half years ago, and frankly haven't wanted to, but it seemed too clear an open door not to walk through it. I wrote him back and said I'd like to teach. The next day was 11/11/11; I was 33 years, 3 months, 3 days old, and again talking the things of God with saint Paul. After sharing some thoughts on 2 Corinthians 3:18 with him, he said "When you said that, it was like Jesus was saying it to my soul." I'm not Jesus, but took the well-timed encouraging word as an affirmation that maybe God has given me grace for pondering on and communicating His truth.

As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God's varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who speaks oracles of God; whoever serves, as one who serves by the strength that God supplies—in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ. To him belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen. (1 Peter 4:10-11)

This past Sunday I started teaching. I'm actually really excited about it, at least in part because the class is flowing out of the typological insights I've been pondering all year. I've organized the class around three themes, based on statements from the Nicene creed:

1. "only begotten Son...before all worlds": types of Christ's Sonship
2. "light of light": types of Christ as light
3. "for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven...": types of Christ's salvific work

I'm also reading volume 11 of the works of Jonathan Edwards with some friends, Typological Writings. I didn't realize it until Ben Carver told me last month, but Edwards thought a lot of the things I've been thinking  almost three centuries ago. I'm also wanting to turn some of the ideas I've had into something publishable; maybe a magazine article, maybe a book, and hopefully a journal article. So far, those are the only concrete things I'm pursuing, but I think it's time to start looking at PhD programs. My only hesitation on that is what I really want to study. My B.A. and M.A. are biblical studies, but my recent interests seem to be more along the lines of natural, spiritual, or even mystical theology. If I had my choice, I'd probably become a monk and pursue a life of reclusive contemplation, and maybe do some gardening, pancake making, and writing, but I'm kinda Protestant, so I don't think that'll work.

I said in my last post on these issues that I wanted to reflect on some texts I was reminded of by the seemingly symbolic connection of my accident with my vocation(s). I haven't done much more thinking on them, but what I see going on in this year is what I see going on in the lives of so many biblical characters: God meets them in terms of their deep identity, reflected in their vocations or names (or both), humbles them, even punishes or breaks them, so that they walk away wounded but transformed. This happened to Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Paul, and ultimately Jesus, to whom they all point. My favorite example apart from Jesus is Jacob, when he wrestled with the angel.

The same night he arose and took his two wives, his two female servants, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and everything else that he had. And Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched his hip socket, and Jacob's hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day has broken.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” And he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then he said, “Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed.” Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the name of the place Peniel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.” The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip. Therefore to this day the people of Israel do not eat the sinew of the thigh that is on the hip socket, because he touched the socket of Jacob's hip on the sinew of the thigh. (Genesis 32:22-32)

Wow. After reading that I realize that I'm still saying "tell me your name" trying to figure everything out, when I need to start walking. I also feel like I have a new limp; I don't have the boldness nor the desire I used to in cycling, but it seems the sun is rising on me. What the new day will bring remains to be seen.

Love is a Black Hole

Song of Solomon repeats this warning about love:

I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
by the gazelles or the does of the field,
that you not stir up or awaken love
until it pleases. (Song of Solomon 2:7; 3:5; cf. 8:4)

Having pondered those words a couple of weeks back, I've been oddly reminded of them since. I've had trouble waking up lately, especially today, when I went to bed early enough but still hit the snooze for a good 90 minutes. At least I made it to work on time, but Saturday I regret how late I slept. A good friend was visiting, and we foolishly stayed up past 3 AM, rambling on about bitter failed relationships. Thinking back in light of the text above, I realized that at least one of my errors was that I awakened love too soon; I jumped in when I should've waited and sought wisdom. My friend planned to wake up at 8:30 to meet another friend for breakfast, and I set my alarm for 9:15 thinking he'd either wake me before leaving or wait until I woke up. When I woke up at 9:15, he was gone without a trace, and actually I haven't heard from him since.

Sunday night when I picked up some white canned coca-cola classic from Food Lion, a deer was loose in the store, apparently a fawn that had been hit by a car on Herlong Ave. I went to the back of the store to see it, but it was in the back room, and the swinging door was spattered with blood. Police and animal control were there; it was a bizarre scene.

Why "by the gazelles or the does..."? Why is love compared to a sleeper not to be stirred up? Is prematurely awakened love grumpy? I don't know the answers to these questions. I do know that the other subjects of deer imagery in the song are...interesting. And I know that I have made the mistake numerous times of awakening love prematurely, and the results have been disastrous.

Tonight I read this New York Times article about the discovery of supermassive black holes. It ends thus:

Astronomers also think the supermassive black holes in galaxies could be the missing link between the early universe and today. In the early days of the universe, quasars, thought to be powered by giant black holes in cataclysmic feeding frenzies, were fountaining energy into space.

Where are those quasars now? The new work supports a growing suspicion that those formerly boisterous black holes are among us now, but, having stopped their boisterous growth, are sleeping.

Mr. McConnell said, “Our discovery of extremely massive black holes in the largest present-day galaxies suggests that these galaxies could be the ancient remains of voracious ancestors.”

Let’s try not to awaken them.

At first I didn't understand how black holes could power quasars that "fountain" energy into space, but after further reflection I realize that the light and energy put off by the quasar might be from the stars that haven't yet "gone down the drain". But I was struck by the final sentence: "Let's try not to awaken them." It's a joke, of course, but it served to alert me to the possibility that black holes bear some resemblance to love. Solomon or whoever wrote the song wasn't aware of black holes, but he chose something that was to the ancients probably as mysterious and fearful as black holes are to us today:

for love is strong as death,
jealousy is fierce as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
the very flame of the LORD. (Song of Solomon 8:6)

The word translated "the very flame of the LORD" (yes, that's one word in Hebrew) is שַׁלְהֶ֥בֶתְיָֽה, which is also found in Job 15:30: "he will not depart from darkness; the flame will dry up his shoots, and by the breath of his mouth he will depart" (Job 15:30 ESV). The preceding phrase "he will not depart from darkness" is at least interesting in this context of deep space objects with such strong fields of gravity that not even light escapes. And I wonder how much love is like a flame, a hurricane, or a black hole: love pulls together, consumes, makes those under its spell more bright and energetic, yet doesn't reveal its secrets to those who look on from the outside. I think I'll let that one lie.

As usual, I'm reminded of musical poetry by these thoughts, but I can't decide to go with "won't you wrap the night around me?...love is drowning in a deep well, all the secrets, and no one to tell..." or "the wreckless raging fury that they call the love of God." So I'll go with both. Enjoy.