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.

Stranger than Fiction

One of my previous posts on the analogy of writing and riding is a chip off the old block of ideas contained in this one. I say “old block” not just to use the figure of speech; I’ve been pondering these ideas for months, and I still don’t fully understand them. But I want to attempt to tie together some threads I left loose over the past few months: my continued sense of God's providence in the circumstances of my riding, and why I was reminded that Christ fulfilled Isaiah's vision of the rough places becoming a plain (Isaiah 40:4) by some road work where I crashed.  

I started this blog thinking I'd write about riding every road in the county, and titled it as I did because I figured it would also include some detached ivory tower-type thoughts about God and spirituality. But shortly after I started the blog, I realized in a fresh way that cycling, especially in its more competitive forms, is a striking metaphor of Christian spiritual pilgrimage: suffering that leads to glory lies at the heart of both. Then I thought to use this metaphor as a paradigm for reflection and writing, but now I find the metaphor coming to life, and myself as a character in the story.

When I set the goal to ride every road in the county, I had in the back of my mind several quasi-spiritual motivations. Among them were a desire to do something definitive as a means to consider Jesus in my 33^rd year (the 33 part will become significant below), and a desire to serve as a symbolic peacemaker between local cyclists and motorists. I figured that if God has given me special favor in cycling, so that I’m more comfortable than most riding in traffic, I'll put that to use and serve other cyclists by riding all the roads, both to show other riders that it can be done safely, and to show motorists that bicycles belong on the road. I wrote abstractly about this motivation in April: "Maybe the way we make peace between enemies is by 'killing the hostility' by absorbing it into ourselves, the way Jesus did when he lovingly absorbed the sin of the world and the wrath of God into himself." I didn’t intend to put myself in harm’s way, but to assume the same risk I have in my zany riding goals the past few years, only this time with a purpose bigger than my desire to triumph over my car’s odometer.

The spring went well; I made good progress at systematically working my way around the county, neighborhood by neighborhood. I enjoyed tracking my progress too, fascinated as I am by maps. I took a few weeks off in May and June to move into a new home, and when I returned to riding after the solstice, I started to feel doubtful about my goal. I loved the challenge, but it was eating into more important parts of my life. During a family vacation on 4^th of July weekend, I had time to reflect, and the prospect of abandoning the goal seemed more sensible.

But when I returned to Rock Hill, with one ride I was swept up in the pursuit once again. On the same ride, I also gained insight into myself that in hindsight highlights the sense I've had all year of being torn between competing callings. I even wrote about it, and was quite excited about it, but didn't think it called for any change of course necessarily. But then the hang-ups with the riding endeavor became more tangible, accompanied by odd numerical occurrences and conspicuous reminders of Scriptural themes. When I try to tell people these things in conversation, I find the thoughts too complex to express verbally. Perhaps it would help to list them by category. First the physical obstacles, then the numerical oddities, and last the reminders of Scripture.

"Don't play with cracked carbon" -R. Davis

One by one, all the elements involved in my endeavor gave out on me:

• Computer: My laptop is 2005-style obsolete, and Google Earth had been overloaded for a while, but soon after I returned from our mountain retreat, the computer grew extra sluggish. In my frustration I paid $250 for the services of mycleanpc.com, which was a total waste. 
• GPS: During a test run of the Garmin battery in July, I accumulated a week's worth of rides, many of them on new roads, only to find my computer wouldn’t recognize the device when I tried to upload them. That meant hours of manual mapping if I wanted to record the progress I made. I did it, but with great frustration and loss of riding time.
• Riding itself: On July 31, I rode in 24 hours of Booty, the 2nd big event I'd aimed at for the year. The lead-up to it was stressful as I struggled in vain to get in long training rides. The weather forecast for triple-digit heat during the event was foreboding, and my ride was disappointing; I didn’t come close to the 483 km I rode last year. My goal was 500 km and I ended with a meager 353. 
• Bike: Afterwards, I took another week off to recover from the depleting effort. My first ride back, the best bike-handler I know hit me from behind in a fluke accident while we rolled around an intersection re-grouping. 



8 days later my phone wasn't too bad off

• Phone: I got a new frame, and six days later took it on its first long ride. I was texting at a stoplight when the light turned green, had to roll with the phone still in my hand, hit a pothole, and dropped it. This was the intersection of Cherry and Celanese, the two busiest roads in Rock Hill; good luck retrieving that one. Dozens of pictures I'd taken on my rides were lost. 

When I returned from that ride, I learned that an earthquake had struck Virginia while I was out, which capped off a truly strange day. But upon further reflection, I realized something even more strange. The first of the numeric oddities occurred on March 11, which was also the date of the massive earthquake in Japan. The number 33 has shown up in my experiences almost as if on cue...

• The "pro contract": My good friend Paul Sutton presented the idea to "sponsor" me by buying me a bike. We joked after striking our deal that I was now a professional cyclist, something I dreamed of for most of my adolescence. Afterward, I realized that he proposed the idea on 3/11/11 at 11 PM, and that as we discussed it, I passed through the 3rd hour and 33rd minute of the 33rd day of the second half of my 33rd year of life. Upon re-calculation months later, I realized it was only the 32nd day, if February 8th is taken as the beginning of the second half of my birth year. But 182.5 days (exactly half a year) from August 8 at 8:46 pm is actually February 7 at 8:46 am, so it turns out I was 32.5 years, 32.5 days, and 3.25 hours old at 12:01 AM 3/12/11, when Paul and I were striking the deal over pancakes. 
• Lust for miles at the Booty ride: I passed through 333.3 km after 12 hours, 12 minutes of ride time, a very biblically complete number, and I thought to call it a day. When I pressed on to get maximum miles, I wound up with 13 hours, 37 seconds of riding, an average heart rate of 130, and 13th place in the hill climb portion of the ride. I'm not superstitious about the number 13, but that's almost enough to tempt me.
• The frame-cracker ride: the collision happened 60 hours to the minute before I turned 33 years old.  
• After the dropped phone ride and the earthquake, I toured Fort Mill on the way back from Charlotte, and unintentionally finished the ride after 3 hours, zero minutes, zero seconds of riding time. The elapsed time was 3:33:03. I'd taken 33 minutes and 3 seconds to get a drink and a new phone. 
• Tega Cay Day: I rode every road in Tega Cay Sunday, 9/4, the longest and most crooked ride I've done this year. A customer popped into the store as John and I prepared to go, and though we were closed, he purchased a bike, the price of which after tax was $333.83. I finished the day with 99.93 miles. 

It was on this ride that Scriptural texts corresponding to my riding experiences became most conspicuous, in part because circumstances had brought to my attention many texts with the theme of straight paths.

"Oh Boy! At last a bike that fits!"

• By the time of the accident that cracked the frame, I was thoroughly frustrated by all the setbacks. I got a replacement frame and was particularly excited after building it up because it was the first time in more than six years I was on a properly sized frame. This was August 16. On the 17th I took it for its first ride in a team time trial at Charlotte Motor Speedway, and the seatpost slipped. As I examined it afterwards I discovered a crack in the seatpost itself. "What next?" I thought. While working on it that night, I was listening to the Bible, as I sometimes do, and though much of it went in one ear and out the other, this cut to the heart: "When you discipline a man with rebukes for sin, you consume like a moth what is dear to him" (Psalm 39:11). Ouch. I wasn't sure what my sin was, but that rang true.  
• The more I thought about it, the more the idea of God's discipline seemed to fit my circumstances. I knew cycling had been occupying too much of my attention and time. I wasn't sleeping well, eating well, working well, the house was a mess, the yard even worse, my bank account yet worse; I was undisciplined and careless in every area of my life except riding all the roads and recording them. 
• With this in mind, I turned to what is probably the best known Bible passage related to the Lord's discipline, Hebrews 12. "Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us... It is for discipline that you have to endure... Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed" (Heb 12:1,7,12-13). I was gripped by v. 12: "make straight paths for your feet", and began to meditate on other texts with similar theme: "ponder (or "make level") the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure" (Prov 4:26-27); "In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths" (Prov 3:6).
• Then came Tega Cay Day. I was stoked about the hilly course and to be knocking out so many roads in one day. As I considered the crooked and undulating course for the day, the sermon text for the morning service at church was strangely fitting: Mark 1:3: "Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight." At first I was tempted by the superstitious thought that God was speaking to me about my ride plan for the day, but as I rode, more light was given on the words from Mark 1. Mark was quoting Isaiah, who follows the call to "prepare the way" with a promise: "Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain" (Isaiah 40:4). Forget my bike riding plans, how was this fulfilled? Didn't Jesus lift up our valleys and smooth our rough places by walking through them? Turn our suffering into the loving discipline of our Father to make us like our older brother (Rom 8:17; Heb 12:7; 5:8), and turn the ultimate enemy death into a friend by tasting death for all of us (Heb 2:9)? In that sense, was riding every road more deeply symbolic of Christ and what He accomplished in his incarnation and humiliation than I first intended or realized? The thought was so fleeting that I could hardly remember it after the ride, but other reminders seemed to present themselves...

Six days after riding every road in Tega Cay, I set out to finish off all the paved roads on the opposite end of the county. I was joined by three friends in what was to be a 78 mile venture. 68 miles in, I was taking a drink when I realized too late I was headed for a ridge in the pavement and a pothole. I had enough time to realize it would be sketchy, but not enough time to react and put my hand on the bars. Thankfully I landed on my back and my bike was unharmed. As I reflected on the accident afterwards, I realized the circumstances were stranger than fiction. I was 33 years and 33 days old, I wrecked on Strait Rd. wearing socks with "let us run with endurance the race set before us" (Heb 12) stitched into the sole. All three themes of broken bike parts, the number 3, and Scriptures related to discipline and straight paths converged in a most remarkable way. 

I may be nuts, but eleven threes kinda stood out

I've already written about this several times, but the more I ponder it, the more strange it gets. I mentioned above that I perceived in the repeated reminders of "straight paths" a call to be more disciplined and responsible in taking care of myself and my house. When I bought ingredients to cook a meal September 23, the first time in months I'd made something other than a sandwich or cereal for dinner, the grocery store receipt was $33.03 before tax, which means $.33 tax, for a total of $33.36.

Standing on a street called Strait

A week later I returned to the scene of the accident and found the whole that wrecked me filled in, which reminded me of the insight I had on Tega Cay day and seemed to be enough of a symbolic confirmation that I decided to write about it. I didn't mention this before, but the stats of that ride were peculiar too: Strava said I climbed 1033 feet and hit 32.9 mph, though Garmin said 555 feet and 33.3 mph max, but both gave avg heart rate of 144, max 177 (do the subtraction). I'm not a numerologist, I promise. I'm not predicting the future with any of this, just observing. I have some theories about the spiritual significance of these things in light of my unusual sensitivity to numbers, but that will have to wait for another post. For now, here's something to ponder: "even the hairs of your head are all numbered" (Matthew 10:30).

The latest thing to strike me is the significance of the first thing that struck me when I fell: my keys. They were in the back pocket that cushioned my landing. Actually they didn't cushion it; they made it much worse. I'm still healing up from that one. A bike accident is obviously significant for someone who makes his living from bicycles, but what is probably not as obvious is that my night job is locking doors. So I fell off my main source of income and landed on the other source of my income. Odd. Here are some texts I'll be chewing on for my next post in which I'll reflect more on this: Genesis 3:17; 17:5; 22:16-18; 32:22-32; maybe Colossians 1:24 and Romans 8:17-23 too.  

In light of these things, Bob Dylan's "Every Grain of Sand" has grown more meaningful to me. Emmylou Harris does it best, I think.

Trying to be Thankful

For the first time in my life, I spent Thanksgiving alone. I decided not to travel to Columbia to see my family. For reasons I can't explain here, it would've meant visiting them in a restaurant and a hotel, and selfish idealism got the better of me. It was so far from "home for the holidays" that I wanted no part of it. My family actually were more okay with it than I was; I felt miserable all day and they were the ones reassuring me. As is often the case in the months of long shadow and gloom, long anticipated gatherings of family or friends often suddenly and violently lose their appeal to me as I'm getting ready or on the way, and I recoil and stay home sulking. I know I'm wrong to do it, but it's better than sulking in a crowd, which I do quite well given half a chance. If you're thinking "this man needs professional help," you're right, and I have it. It helps; it doesn't fix.

I intentionally rode south of town to where a tornado struck last week, killing three people and destroying several homes. I stopped on the side of Williamson Rd., where I could see the site of the mobile home in which two people died, and a swath of downed trees and the charred ground where homes once stood. I considered how much the victims lost, and how much I have to be thankful for. I was rebuked, but not broken. My heart is as hard as the barren ground scoured by the storm. What an elusive thing gratitude seems to me right now; seeking it directly doesn't seem to be working, so I think I'll stop.

Thanksgiving with Nebuchadnezzar and friends

I passed by the Courtneys' house and said a prayer for them. There were a lot of lookers driving around the area. After crossing the cotton fields near Mobley Store and turning back toward town, I stopped when I saw some beautiful cows. They were close, and I scrambled to get a picture of them, but by the time I'd retrieved my camera, they'd bolted away, and I scared the piss out of one of them. I thought for a minute or two about that. "The fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth..." (Gen 9:2). Why is that? Beyond the fact that "every moving thing that lives shall be food for you..." (9:3), what does that signify? I'm channeling Edwards here, thinking typologically. I considered Psalm 8, "You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet, all sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field" (Psalm 8:6-7). Nothing dawned on me, so I asked the question, threw a leg over the bike, and kept riding. Now that I'm home, though, I think there might be more to ponder in the phrase at the end of Gen 9:2 "Into your hand they are delivered" and the New Testament's application of "all things under his feet" to Christ's lordship over all things including death (1 Cor 15:25-28; Heb 2:5-9). Hands and feet and animals and death and Jesus. What's that all about? Not sure, but I'm pretty sure there's a goldmine just under the surface where those texts converge.

I wanted to ride back by the site of the worst damage and get a picture. I'd refrained on my first pass because I thought it would be insensitive, but I saw a section of forest away from the homes damaged that I thought I could capture, so I looped back around on S Rambo and 324, where I passed this:

What struck me was the thought being thankful, not just giving thanks. Like the NIV's mistranslation of James 1:22 "Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says." Just do it, huh? Trouble is that's not what it says. Γίνεσθε δὲ ποιηταὶ λόγου καὶ μὴ μόνον ἀκροαταὶ παραλογιζόμενοι ἑαυτούς. Wow, after looking up Γίνεσθε I feel even more strongly. "Become"; it signifies a change of condition, state, or place. Literally it reads "Become (but) doers of word and not only hearers deceiving yourselves." No lie I had an argument about this with an imagined opponent as I rode away from the sign. If you ever wonder why I'm so quiet on bike rides, it's not because I'm not talking, it's just I'm talking to people only I can hear. Okay, so what's the big deal? "Become a doer of the word" or "do the word" are saying the same thing. Isn't it just semantics? I've already written plenty here and here trying to prove the point that it's closer to life and death than it is to semantics. We don't change the fruit on a tree by stapling store-bought apples onto the tree, we give the tree good soil and water and light. I'm thankful for my friend Ellen's advice to cultivate thankfulness through mindfulness. I'm still struggling with my mind's tendency to see all glasses half-empty, but at least the demon is named and I can fight the battle where it rages. 

I rode back to the site of the worst damage. You can see the trees broken and stripped of leaves in the center. 

You can also see my shadow, which I didn't notice, the same way I didn't notice that I was being watched as I captured this. I turned around and saw a man and woman sitting in their carport with several cars, but nothing but a few bulldozers where their house once was, and a smoldering fire consuming the last of the rubble. I was embarrassed. I didn't want to treat their suffering as a spectacle for my curiosity, even if dozens of cars per minute were doing just that, but I'd been caught. I stood there for a minute feeling uncomfortable, and then waved. Actually I think they waved first. I rolled onto the pavement, and the woman said "You can hardly recognize it, huh?" 

"Yeah." 

"Glad y'all weren't riding out here that night; it came through about the time y'all normally do." 

I talked to them for a few minutes, trying to show some measure of appropriate sympathy, but it wasn't much use. How do you console someone you just met who's sitting in their metal carport next to a patch of dirt that used to be their house--on Thanksgiving? Rather, they were the ones showing kindness to me, in part because they'd received such grace in the midst of tragedy. Albert (I think that was his name), the 80-year old father, was home when the tornado struck; two family members hid under the couch, and the next thing he knew, the roof collapsed. He received a few scratches. His house had seven fireplaces, which are particularly dangerous in violent storms, but all of them exploded or crumbled. Their neighbors across the street lived in a mobile home and were both killed. Sue said, "I've never seen one before, but I can say now that I've seen a miracle." She also told me how amazed she's been at how many volunteers they had helping them clean up.   I asked them about their house, and they said they're planning to rebuild. "We're thankful. We can replace a house, but we can't replace each other." I thanked her for letting me stop by. "Sure, you're welcome to stop by any time." What beautiful people. 

I rode away struck with my own ingratitude and selfishness. In moments like those, I sometimes think I'd better be grateful for what I have; it might be taken away from me. Then by legalistic reflex, I "thank" God, fearing the possible consequences if I'm not thankful. I'm not sure what that is, but I don't think it's gratitude.    

Hebrews 12:28 says "Therefore let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe." Literally "therefore, a kingdom unshakable receiving, let us have grace." It's been said that thanksgiving isn't giving out of our abundance; it's receiving such abundance so deeply that it overflows back to its source. That's the secret, but it's so true that "there's nothing harder than learning how to receive":

The Grace of Sleep

I sometimes defend my habit of staying up too late with the thought that the early bird may get the worm, but the night owl eats the early bird for a midnight snack. I don't know if I'm the first to say that, but inasmuch as I stay up trying to get work done, I think I'm wrong. I keep beating my head against this wall:

Unless the LORD builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.
Unless the LORD watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep. (Psalm 127:1-2)

Here's an interesting application of that text

This psalm alludes to the possibility that work done in a certain manner is in harmony with the will of God to the extent that it amounts to God himself working (cf. Psalm 90:16-17; Isaiah 26:12; Ephesians 2:10). I'm open to correction on that interpretation of verse 1. But if I'm understanding correctly, how does vain labor differ from work that is the LORD's? It seems the only quality of vain work mentioned by the text is the habit of rising early and going late to rest. How does rest or the lack thereof determine whether our work is God's or in vain?

It dawned on me two weeks ago when I stayed up past 3 AM three times in one week in order to write this that there is a correspondence between the necessity of physical rest for effective physical work and spiritual rest for effective spiritual work. It was particularly striking to me because I was writing that the only way we can do good moral works is from a posture that rests in Christ's work for righteousness and acceptance with God, and I found myself sluggish and less than sharp in my routine work at the bike shop because of a lack of rest. Isn't it odd that past a certain point, the harder we work, the less we get done? So too in the spiritual and moral realm (not that physical work has no spiritual and moral value), when we don't rest in Christ as our righteousness, but seek to justify ourselves through our work/s, our works shrivel, regardless how hard we try.

This is an on-going struggle that's been particularly intense for me the past few weeks. I set a goal to finish three substantial pieces of writing by the end of October, and three weeks into November I'm not done with any of them. And it seems the more I redouble my efforts, the less progress I make. Since much of my writing is theological, I also find myself greatly hindered when my desire to produce turns into a desire to perform, and my heart craves the approval of people for what I speak in public more than the approval of God when I seek him in private. Then comes the subtle perversity of seeking God so that I can be productive and have something good to write rather than for His own sake. Scary. As Keller summarizes Edwards, the difference between a genuine and false believer is that a false believer finds God useful and the true believer finds God beautiful.

That leads quite naturally to this prayer:

Let your work be shown to your servants,
and your glorious power to their children.
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,
and establish the work of our hands upon us;
yes, establish the work of our hands! (Psalm 90:16-17)

Our work "established" is dependent on a vision of God's work and power, and receiving his favor. The word translated "favor" is the Hebrew word noam, which may also be translated "beauty" or "pleasantness," and is the source of the name Naomi.

O LORD, you will ordain peace for us,
for you have indeed done for us all our works. (Isaiah 26:12)

I don't fully understand how those two things relate, but Paul alludes to similar ideas in Ephesians 2, perhaps by way of elaboration.

For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them. (Ephesians 2:8-10)

His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus, God prepared beforehand... we walk. How much more clear can Paul be that the key to our works is not our works? He continues...

Therefore remember that... you were at that time separated from Christ... But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he himself is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility... that he might create in himself one new man in place of the two, so making peace, and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility. And he came and preached peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access in one Spirit to the Father.
(Ephesians 2:11-18)

There's much more that could be said about these texts and others, but for now, I'm off to enjoy sleep, that constant reminder that neither my work nor my works can save me, and that God works and gives while I close my eyes and snore.

Throwing my Baggage Under the Bus

In my last post, I described my experience of spiritual and theological confusion regarding the issue of justification and how I may come to have righteousness and a clear conscience in the sight of God. What I wrote was essentially the form of the ideas when I was teaching on them five years ago. After I posted it, I realized it was incomplete in a few areas, and in a few others I misspoke, and I'd like to tie up the loose ends and correct myself.

Rescuing or taunting? I can't decide either

First, I realized that I threw a few parties under the bus when I said that they compounded my struggle. Lest I suggest that I have nothing good to say about my alma mater, Baptists, and Catholics, let me clarify. First, I admit that what tainted my interaction with these forms of the faith and their adherents was my own insecurity and guilty conscience. Many of my peers in Bible College had a very enriching spiritual experience. Though my experience was overshadowed by a sense of doubt and guilt, my education equipped me with a knowledge of Scripture that has benefited me immeasurably. I stumbled at the way that the "victorious life" and world evangelism were so emphasized that Christ himself seemed to be a means to those ends, but it was probably my guilty, prideful fear that caused me to perceive things that way. The same goes for my interactions with parents while I was teaching. I was at fault in some of my teaching, not sensitive enough to doctrinal differences, and overly sensitive when criticized. But I confess I really enjoyed rocking the Christian school boat by questioning the motive of "see you at the pole," quoting the apostles' creed, talking about predestination (it's kinda in the Bible, no?), acknowledging that some devout Christians believe in evolution, and giving attention to Mr. lightning rod himself, Martin Luther. But I have a hunch that if "God in the form of this angry young man" showed up showed up in an American Christian school environment, he'd cause more than a little controversy.

Soren Kierkegaard

Second, I got a little carried away with the exegesis of texts and failed to reason adequately from my insights to my main point that justifying faith and its immediate effect of a clean conscience is the only foundation for good works, holiness, and the justification of proven righteousness. I assumed this was clear by demonstrating that what Abraham believed to perform the radical act of obedience in sacrificing Isaac was the same thing he believed (and more importantly, we believe) in order to be justified, declared righteous and forgiven. That connection was a Copernican revolution in my understanding of sanctification. What I thought before seeing this was that sanctification (as Protestant theology calls the justification of practically proven righteousness) was the means to prove to myself that I was justified, based on a reading of 2 Peter 1:10 that ignored 2 Pet 1:9, a misunderstanding of certain parts of Hebrews, and a failure to read Jesus' demands for discipleship in the gospels in light of the cross. The result was that I sought assurance of salvation by sanctification, which inevitably degenerated into the pursuit of justification by means of sanctification, or justification by works. But Abraham obeyed by faith in the same promise by which he was declared righteous to begin with, not by self-conscious effort to prove to himself that God had made that promise and he had believed it. So the quintessential act of sacrificial obedience, an act so radical that Kierkegaard called it a leap of faith into the absurd, was not the scary arbitrary demand of a harsh God that I once thought, but rather accorded with justification by grace through faith. I thought sanctification was the path to justification, or at least to the assurance of justification; in fact the opposite is true. Unless I can rest in Christ and his righteousness, I will never progress in love.

Third, I failed to explain practically why good works must flow out of a clean conscience before God. The simplest answer to this question is that if we believe our works are saving us, we aren't doing them for others or for God, but for ourselves. I'm not the first one to say these things. Martin Luther writes in his Treatise on Good Works, section ix, "Now this is the work of the First Commandment, which commands: 'Thou shalt have no other gods,' which means: 'Since I alone am God, thou shalt place all thy confidence, trust and faith on Me alone, and on no one else.'" In essence, he says that justification by faith is implied in the first commandment. He continues:

And this faith, faithfulness, confidence deep in the heart, is the true fulfilling of the First Commandment; without this there is no other work that is able to satisfy this Commandment... Compared with this, other works are just as if the other Commandments were without the First, and there were no God...

As Paul says of his fellow Israelites who don't believe in Christ, "they did not submit to God's righteousness" (Romans 10:3), so Luther equates failure to believe in Christ for justification with idolatry and its fruits:

Section X: Now you see for yourself that all those who do not at all times trust God and not in all their works or sufferings, life and death, trust in His favor, grace and good-will, but seek His favor in other things or in themselves, do not keep this Commandment, and practise real idolatry, even if they were to do the works of all the other Commandments, and in addition had all the prayers, fasting, obedience, patience, chastity, and innocence of all the saints combined. For the chief work is not present, without which all the others are nothing but mere sham, show and pretence, with nothing back of them; against which Christ warns us, Matthew vii: "Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing." Such are all who wish with their many good works, as they say, to make God favorable to themselves, and to buy God's grace from Him, as if He were a huckster or a day-laborer, unwilling to give His grace and favor for nothing. These are the most perverse people on earth, who will hardly or never be converted to the right way. Such too are all who in adversity run hither and thither, and look for counsel and help everywhere except from God, from Whom they are most urgently commanded to seek it; whom the Prophet Isaiah reproves thus, Isaiah ix: "The mad people turneth not to Him that smiteth them"; that is, God smote them and sent them sufferings and all kinds of adversity, that they should run to Him and trust Him. But they run away from Him to men, now to Egypt, now to Assyria, perchance also to the devil; and of such idolatry much is written in the same Prophet and in the Books of the Kings. This is also the way of all holy hypocrites when they are in trouble: they do not run to God, but flee from Him, and only think of how they may get rid of their trouble through their own efforts or through human help, and yet they consider themselves and let others consider them pious people.

Wow. I didn't realize that Martin Luther was taking notes on me while I was in college. That fits my experience to a tee.

A generation later, the Belgic Confession stated the same truth in article 24:

Parlez-Vous Francais?

We believe that this true faith being wrought in man by the hearing of the Word of God, and the operation of the Holy Ghost, doth regenerate and make him a new man, causing him to live a new life, and freeing him from the bondage of sin. Therefore it is so far from being true, that this justifying faith makes men remiss in a pious and holy life, that on the contrary without it they would never do anything out of love to God, but only out of self-love or fear of damnation. Therefore it is impossible that this holy faith can be unfruitful in man: for we do not speak of a vain faith, but of such a faith, which is called in Scripture, a faith that worketh by love, which excites man to the practice of those works, which God has commanded in his Word.

That's strong. It strikes me that this theory of good works presupposes the Christian doctrines of the sinfulness of humanity, our need of salvation, and that God will judge the world. I suspect, however, that the principle applies no matter one's worldview, that without the security of grace, good deeds are acts of selfishness, but that calls for further thought. For now, fast forward three centuries to when Charles Spurgeon told the story of "The King and the Carrot:"

What a jolly looking fellow Charles was

Once upon a time there was a king who ruled over everything in a land. One day there was a gardener who grew an enormous carrot. He took it to his king and said, “My lord, this is the greatest carrot I’ve ever grown or ever will grow; therefore, I want to present it to you as a token of my love and respect for you.” The king was touched and discerned the man’s heart, so as he turned to go, the king said, “Wait! You are clearly a good steward of the earth. I want to give a plot of land to you freely as a gift, so you can garden it all.” The gardener was amazed and delighted and went home rejoicing. But there was a nobleman at the king’s court who overheard all this, and he said, “My! If that is what you get for a carrot, what if you gave the king something better?” The next day the nobleman came before the king, and he was leading a handsome black stallion. He bowed low and said, “My lord, I breed horses, and this is the greatest horse I’ve ever bred or ever will; therefore, I want to present it to you as a token of my love and respect for you.” But the king discerned his heart and said, “Thank you,” and took the horse and simply dismissed him. The nobleman was perplexed, so the king said, “Let me explain. That gardener was giving me the carrot, but you were giving yourself the horse.”

Greg Salazar summarizes well: "You cannot barter with grace. Grace says, 'you don’t deserve anything and yet I am giving you everything.' The one who understands this will be like this farmer graciously giving the King everything. This is the true fruit of a tree planted in God’s vineyard."

G. C. Berkouwer writes in Faith and Sanctification,

It is well to note that the Reformed Confessions never teach that believers, having gone through the gate of justification, now enter upon a new territory where they must, without outside help, take their sanctification in hand. It is not true that sanctification simply succeeds justification... Hence there is never a stretch along the way of salvation where justification drops out of sight. (77)

Berkouwer looking somewhat annoyed

Genuine sanctification--let it be repeated--stands or falls with this continued orientation toward justification and the remission of sins. (78)

The believer's constant "commerce" with the forgiveness of sins and his continued dependence on it must--both in pastoral counseling and in dogmatic analysis--be laid bare, emphasized, and kept in sight. Only thus can we keep at bay the spectre of haughtiness--"as if we had made ourselves to differ."
    The dangers that beset us in our reflection on the work of the Holy Spirit (here he refers to a view of the Holy Spirit's work that divorces it from justification by grace, so that the grace of the Spirit is "placed in physical, instead of ethical, antithesis to nature. The ethical contrast of sin and grace yields to that of nature and super-nature" [82]) cannot simply be evaded by means of a theological technique. It is very well possible to speak about the Spirit's operations and still think of man only in his sinful self-containment. There is no rational technique that affords a priori insurance against anthropocentrism, nomism, and pharisaism. The only insurance known is an exultant faith which thrives on God alone and "forgets not all his benefits." (84)

This reminds me how I once viewed the Pauline teaching to "walk in the Spirit." Pardon me while I engage in a little nostalgic introspection. "For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live" (Romans 8:13). In 1998 I read in John Piper's Future Grace that this refers to eternal death and eternal life (he probably said more than that, but in my fearful selfishness it's all I heard) and thought "I must lack assurance because I'm not walking by the Spirit; I'd better be more careful to do that. But what does that mean? Do I follow these impulses and "promptings" of conscience to do things I don't want to do? Is that obedience? I feel compelled to go and "witness" to people on the street, and I've done so, but still feel doubtful and guilty. Maybe it's because I've not shared the whole gospel. Maybe it's because I've only spoken to people I already know or only when I'm with other people in my church's visitation training, and that doesn't take a real leap of faith, and I need to just bust out a sermon in the middle of Wal-Mart like Peter in Acts. Yeah, that's what I need to do. If I pray enough beforehand, and just take the first step, the Spirit will come on me with power and maybe I'll even speak in tongues." It didn't happen. I felt condemned. It sounds so silly now, but it was no laughing matter. The devil had mixed my hyper-sensitivity, an educational environment charged with expectancy of transformation and spiritual power for ministry, a world-evangelization centered hermeneutic and spirituality, a decisionist understanding of faith in the gospel, thrown in a few twisted Bible verses for good measure, and served me up a lethal brew of law posing as gospel. And I drank it down to the dregs year after year.

I was at fault in many ways; though I sometimes spoke to mentors about this, I was never fully open with all my thoughts. I was too proud to admit how much I was struggling. But no one wanted to hear it, not even close friends, not to mention pastors or professors. I certainly wasn't confident enough to be persistent with them, and wasn't the picture of promise and potential that spiritual leaders usually choose for discipleship relationships. I wonder if this isn't an unavoidable symptom of contemporary evangelical activist fascination with success and numbers, so that most spiritual leaders are so determined to bring justice to the nations that they don't notice the bruised reeds and faintly burning wicks right in front of them (Isaiah 42:1-3). I also wonder if my alma mater, with its core values of the authority of Scripture, victorious Christian living, and world evangelization, doesn't make Christ himself subservient to these emphases. The people Jesus rebuked were all about the Bible (Jn 5:39), victorious living (Luke 18:11-12), and making converts (Matt 23:15), but they missed Jesus. I was known by some who knew me superficially in those days as a CIU poster child; indeed I was impressed with these three values, but in all honesty I was more impressed with them than I was with Jesus and his gospel. Why is this? I think part of the problem is that victorious life teaching does not view "constant commerce with the forgiveness of sins" as the foundation of holy living. In practice, if not in explicit doctrine, it communicates that we "move on" from that to greater things.

If my interpretation of the "victorious life" of Abraham in my last post was correct, this couldn't be further from the truth. I'm so grateful that about the same time I saw this in Scripture, I began to be exposed to the teaching of Tim Keller, from whom I learned of the sources I quoted above (no, I have not read those works of my own initiative). His teaching refreshed me, and continues to do so, because he preaches Christ from all of Scripture, so that what impresses me most from the word isn't the authority of the particular text, nor the moral demands it rightly places on me, nor the call and need to proclaim it to the world, but Jesus himself, whose face is the ultimate power of transformation (2 Cor 3:18). His sermon "Inside-Out Living" on Luke 18:9-14 has been particularly meaningful to me, and if you listen, I think you'll see why and appreciate it too.