All Things New

Taking out the garbage this morning, I noticed we had new dumpsters in our apartment complex. I caught myself admiring how "nice" they looked, what with their shiny dumpster steel and all. What struck me was how much anything new grabs our attention. The trouble with things "new" is that they don't remain that way. So even as we appreciate the "newness" and want to somehow preserve it, there's already an anticipation of loss in our knowing that the "newness" is passing and temporary. Some of us actually have a hard time with this and so end up constantly moving from one new thing to the next, looking and searching for that ever elusive something whose newness is not passing but is somehow permanent or even inexpicably intensifying.

For the two years before moving to Glenside, PA (just outside Philadelphia) in 2005 to attend Westminster Theological Seminary, I worked in Newark, NJ. It probably won't surprise you to know that there are a lot of ugly, rundown buildings in Newark. Each of those buildings was at one time new when they were constructed. For those who owned, lived in or even rented business space in them, the "new" buildings briefly instilled a sense of hope before their decay.

The interesting thing I find is that while we are attracted to the novelty of newness, what we more deeply long for is its permanency. In wanting things to "stay new," which on the surface might appear to be a contradiction, what is revealed is that "newness" isn't so much a function of time as it is a condition or status; hence the phrase "good as new."

I think we have every reason to be drawn to things new. The anticipation of things new is all over the Scriptures, with Isaiah audaciously writing of the creation of a new heaven and new earth. Is. 65:17. The rumbling of expectation in the Hebrew Scriptures explodes all over the pages of the New Testament. There is a new covenant, new song, new life, new birth, new wine, new self and new Jerusalem. In Christ, there is a new creation. This is isn't just on an individual level, but globally and cosmically. The resurrection definitively pronounces that sin, evil and death have been defeated. Now, as a present reality. But not fully and finally. Thus "already" and "not yet" (hey, that sounds familiar). This renewal is now being worked out in history to its completion through the work of Jesus by his Spirit. And it is happening in the same manner Jesus brought it about - through life-giving, life-transforming speech and actions, marked by truth, love, self-denial, courage, humility, obedience, joy, self-giving, forgiveness, justice, mercy and grace.

That is why the New Testament speaks of taking up our cross and following Jesus. In a sense, we are called to recapitulate the life of Jesus in our own experience. He gives us the privilege of walking the same path he walked. But our cross-bearing, unlike his, is not one of shame and ignominy and judgment. Ours is in a sense a sign of our present resurrection. That is also why in the New Testament there is much talk of participation in the sufferings of Christ; and there is even rejoicing at even being found worthy to identify with him in such a way.

It is what Christ has done and is now doing that is real and lasting and permanent and new, being renewed. The old creation is giving way to the glory of the new creation; the old earth is giving way to the new heavens and new earth. All of which will be brought to completion upon the return of the one who is now, in his glorified resurrection body, the new creation, "reconciling to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross." Colossians 1:20

"And he who was seated on the throne said, 'Behold, I am making all things new.'" Rev. 21:5.

The Dilemma of Truth and Power

Morality is unavoidable. Every “ought”, every “should”, every criticism of another person, whether verbally expressed or silently contemplated, entails a moral judgment concerning that other person. One of the interesting things I find is that a (moral?) code concerning the “avoidance” of moral claims instead of increasing civility actually undermines it and makes constructive disagreement difficult.

I think all of us to one extent or another can feel threatened by claims concerning morality and truth that we don’t subscribe to - this applies equally to those who believe in the validity of such claims - and even for valid reasons. However, I don’t think the denial of morality and truth as either existing or knowable (not exhaustively, but reliably) solves our problem. Especially considering that none of us have any problem judging others according to our concepts of morality and truth, while we deny others that same privilege, exclaiming “who are you to say,” but never thinking to turn to ourselves to ask, “who am I to say?”

The concern about moral/truth claims, which we all continue to make as intractably moral beings - yes, including those who self-identify as secular - is control, manipulation, coercion. Now, the fact of the matter is human history is the story of the abuse and misuse of any and all things, be it money, sex, political power, intelligence, etc. So the question is why the abuse of morality/truth by some should result in their generally becoming suspect. At the risk of being redundant, I don’t think this is what happens across the board anyway, but seems to be a convenient way of dismissing the stuff that threatens our own moral/truth claims, even if we only call such claims “choices.”

Having said that, I agree that a truth claim is in itself an assertion of power because implicit in a claim to “truth” is that it should be followed and adhered to. In a sense, the claim says, “believe me” and/or “obey me.” And if I disagree or don’t acknowledge its truth, then the power of the claim imposes itself on me in my resistance to it. This is the case regardless of the civility with which the claim may be presented. Actually, if the claim is accompanied by threats of physical violence, then it is no longer the claim that is threatening, but the person or group issuing the threats.

Yet, the eradication of truth claims does not do anything to assist us in this regard. If we dismiss the reliable accessibility of truth as something to which we can point others, then any moral judgments or attempts to persuade are merely coercive exercises in power and manipulation to conform others to one’s own preferences. Now, this coercive manipulation maybe executed politely and intelligently, with sophisticated argumentation. In the end, absent truth, it is then a polite, intelligent and sophisticated exercise in manipulative power.

Thus, truth claims are threatening and possibly coercive exercises in power. At the same time, the denial of truth leaves us with only coercive exercises in power. We are in a bind without a way out.

At this point, someone may interrupt to say, “uh, since you like believe in God and stuff, don’t you think you should, you know, mention him or something.” Okey dokey.

But does this help us out of our bind concerning truth and its coercive power? Well, actually, there are many who consider God to be the most coercive truth claim of all – one whose power is to exercise control over otherwise “free” people. In my experience, many who self-identify as secular don’t so much deny that there could be or is a god (though of course some do), but what they resolutely deny is that God is true and good. Okay, so they should just stop this nonsense about “there is no truth” or “we can’t know the truth” and realize that God is truth; and he is good, not coercive, and that’ll get us out of our bind and solve our problem concerning truth and morality. No. That won’t get it done.

The Old Testament book of Isaiah is largely comprised of the prophet Isaiah’s proclamation of truth and justice against his contemporaries’ falsehood and injustice: “Stop doing wrong, learn to do right! Seek justice, encourage the oppressed. Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the cause of the widow.” Is. 1:16-17. In the book’s 6^th chapter, Isaiah himself has an encounter with the truth, he experiences the presence of ultimate reality, namely God, and he falls to pieces: “Woe is me! I cried. I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty.” Is. 6:5. The truth comes to Isaiah and searches him out, exposing him for who he is, telling him what he’s really like, and he cannot bear it: “Woe is me…I am ruined.” In the light of truth, he realizes that he is not in any way the truthful person he might have imagined himself to be, but realizes that he, like everyone around him, is basically a poseur and pretender whose own mouth is sullied by the half-truths, untruths, sort of truths he utters: “I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips.”

I think this is one picture of what the experience of judgment might be like. We spend our entire lives covering up, shading, deflecting, maneuvering, blame-shifting, pretending and posing. These are all survival mechanisms. Who of us if we were to be full exposed to the light of truth without anywhere to hide or run, if we were to have our conventional weapons of self-defense taken from us that keep us from even acknowledging the truth about ourselves, would not exclaim along with Isaiah, “woe is me, I am ruined?” Who of us could stand even for a moment?

So, we have a situation in which we each conduct ourselves as if we are “the truth,” even as we, in spite of our pretensions, are conscious of our need for a truth that eludes us. At the same time, we don’t really want, nor are we capable of receiving, the unvarnished truth, which simply overwhelms us. The exchange in the climactic courtroom scene in “A Few Good Men” expresses our plight: “I want the truth…You can’t handle the truth.” Truth is both unavoidable and unapproachable, and our dilemma not only remains, but is all the more apparent

Into this reality comes the one who surrenders all the power and privilege of being the truth, while remaining fully the truth. The truth puts down all his weapons and comes to us completely disarmed, even allowing us to use our weapons against him, thus exposing us all the more. Yet, it is from the cross, in his complete abandonment of power, that the truth calls us to himself in the only position that would permit us to approach him: “I, when I am lifted up from the earth (crucified), will draw all people to myself.” John 12:32. In so doing, he demonstrates that essential to truth is grace.

What is remarkable is that the pretensions to truth made by all the rest of us in religious and irreligious forms are harsh judges that do not relinquish their control or illusions of power, be they meager or substantial. By rising from the dead Jesus demonstrates that even when stripped of all “power,” the one who is truth is vindicated.

The one who is truth and grace utilizes his power in its abandonment and surrender to draw and unite to himself those who know they can’t handle the truth.

John Kamal Hanna

On January 22, 2005, my cousin John Kamal Hanna died from severe injuries sustained in a car accident nine days earlier.

John is unlike any person I have ever known. The primary reason for this is because he saw each person he encountered as being unlike any he had ever known. John was utterly fascinated by his fellow human beings, interested in what they thought and what they did; how they talked and how they walked. It’s one of the reasons he was so good at doing impressions. There are those of you reading this who I think might rather have enjoyed John’s impersonation of you, even as it might have caused you to squirm a little. At times John’s impressions were so good, that the next time you saw the person, it seemed as if he were himself doing an impression of John’s impression.

As I’ve already made clear, there is no doubt that John was endowed with extraordinary personal gifts, among which was an incomparable sense of humor. Yet, the best way I can put the noticeable change in him after he entrusted himself to Christ a mere 5 years before he died was that he became more himself. His already splendid sense of humor became more abundant. Even his impressions transitioned from being a way of poking fun to being a tribute to his affection for people. That didn't make them any less uproarious by the way. To enter into a room where John was present was to usually enter a room filled with laughter, with his own distinctive, infectious laugh always standing out.

While in many respects, the “old” John remained recognizable, even as his traits became more pronounced, refined and restored, there was one characteristic, among others, that was altogether new. Quite frankly, the notion of service or being available to the point of inconvenience for those in difficult circumstances was not something that would have occurred to John. He became not just a servant, but a model servant, ready to set aside his agenda to meet a need, to provide counsel, to accomodate himself to what was necessary for the other's well-being. Yet, this did not suppress the other aspects of his personality, but only served to accentuate them; thereby, revealing more of John's "true self."

John was interested in people for their own sakes, and they flourished in his presence. To the athlete, he was an athlete; always intelligent and curious, but a voracious reader only after his conversion, to the intellectual, an intellectual; to the child, a child; to the elderly, attentive, respectful and, as always, interested and curious, in the best sense of the word. The weak, rejected or “insignificant” with him were strong, accepted and significant. With respect to all races, cultures and ethnicities, he would enter and inhabit the other person’s world, adapting himself to his thinking and environment. Even as an Egyptian he was unique in his ability to relate to other Egyptians for whom English was not their primary language, as he was fully conversant in the nuances and cadences of spoken Arabic unlike anyone else whose family immigrated when he was a mere 3 months of age. No one, not even visitors from Egypt or new immigrants, could tell an Egyptian joke the way John did. And it didn’t even matter that he would always be the first to laugh upon his exquisite delivery of the punchline that you could listen to time and again.

Four weeks before he died, John mobilized a group of people to distribute food and clothing to the homeless in Newark, NJ on Christmas morning. That which John began has continued for the last two years. Confidently, I can tell you that it is a more fitting celebration of the incarnation: “For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake, he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.” 1 Cor. 8:9.

John was the living embodiment of the Apostle Paul’s writing in 1 Cor. 9:19-23, which, in vv. 22-23, concludes: “I have become all things to all people that by all means I might save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, that I may share with them in its blessings.” Now some of you maybe thinking, “wait a second I thought you said John cared for people for their own sakes; but here it talks about ‘saving’ and adjusting to people for the ‘sake of the gospel.’” These are not contradictory. Because John loved people for their own sake he wanted them to know the one in whom there is the life, freedom and joy of being their true selves, just as he was “more himself.” This wasn’t an ulterior motive; nor was it him “pretending” to be interested in people so he could get credit for “changing” them. Jesus, who John freely emulated, is the ultimate one who enters into our world, at immeasurable cost to himself, for our sake and changes us.

I know all this may come across as hagiography from someone who loves and misses John. Actually, I am exercising restraint in order to keep this from being too long. During John's nine days in the hospital, and in the aftermath of his death, many people, some unknown to those of us close to him, indentified him as their "best" or "only" friend. The more likely a person was to be ignored by others, the more likely it was that John would be drawn to him.

As I’ve already said, what made John this way was not any claim to goodness on his own part, but his recognition that he was a forgiven sinner rooted in the love and mercy that Jesus freely gives. Furthermore, as I read the New Testament, I cannot help but think this is what we’re all supposed to look like as our “true selves,” for in Jesus the broken image of God, that John so readily recognized in each person, is restored and renewed. It is safe to say that this reality penetrated and captivated John more deeply than the rest of us.

Martin Luther King

For those who've never read it, here's Martin Luther King's Letter from Birmingham Jail. And if you've read it, it's worth rereading, especially if it's been a while.

Don't say that word

This article on the "pursuit of happiness" was on the NY Times most emailed list for nearly a week after its appearance. It's actually on the proliferation of "positive psychology" classes in colleges and universities. Given the article's length and subject matter, it could be dissected and discussed from numerous angles. Assuming my brief attention span is not diverted by other matters (you know what they say about assuming), I hope to return to it. I want to highlight this intriguing paragraph:

I sat in on the course a few more times during the semester, and when Kashdan was done with pleasure versus selfless giving, he took up gratitude and forgiveness, close relationships and love, then spirituality and well-being and finally “meaning and purpose in life.” “I never use the word morality,” Kashdan said. Rather his goal was to show that “there are ways of living that research shows lead to better outcomes.”

There are a number of things immediately striking. The first of which is that these issues are unavoidable. Now, what’s interesting is that here we have what is for all intents and purposes a “religion” class (it deals with the issues and questions religions generally address), not in order to critically study the religion – history, development, etc., which is the usual approach in colleges and universities - but in the manner of instruction/ indoctrination as to how to live. I’m not writing this in order to complain of “bias” or to cry “no fair,” but only to point out that the lines sometimes drawn with respect to these matters are not nearly as clear as is sometimes maintained. Issues of meaning, purpose, how to live well – which any perspective on reality, life, humanity will address – are essential to being human and are, broadly speaking, “religious.”

Now, the instructor tries to get around this by avoiding the word “morality.” This avoidance strikes me as bordering on taboo, with “morality” being a “bad” word that’s forbidden. I’m reminded of a familiar phrase pertaining to a certain aquatic fowl that talks and walks. Immediately problematic is the fact that forgiveness necessarily entails a moral judgment concerning the wrongfulness of the conduct of the “forgiven” person. As a matter of fact, “I forgive you” can be offensive to a person who doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong that warrants forgiveness. “I forgive you” basically means “you’ve done something wrong, but I will not hold it against you.” Absent morality, forgiveness is gutted of any meaning.

Furthermore, our understanding of life’s meaning and purpose is inextricably tied to morality. To posit that morality is disconnected from meaning, purpose, relationships and love would render “morality” an arbitrary set of rules disconnected from reality. Whether or not we agree with their particular claims, any set of moral directives is designed to be consistent with questions of meaning and purpose, etc. That is what we have here – guidelines for life arising out of consideration of these larger questions. And it is not the case that the students are to figure out these matters for themselves. They have come to receive instruction from an authority figure, in order to appropriate what is inescapably moral guidance. The fact he says this is only about "better" outcomes does not change this. "Better' is not a morally neutral word, but implies a hierarchy of outcomes.

One of the points of the article, it seems to me, is that reality has a discernible shape. And it is up to us to conform ourselves to its, dare I say, "authority," as opposed to doing what we "feel" or "want," if we are to live well. This truth is not negated by the fact we don't achieve consensus or always agree. Intuitively we should know this to be the case. With respect to those things that matter to us, such as our careers, health and fitness, finances, hobbies, etc., we submit our inclinations and desires to their "authority" in order that we might be "good" in that area of our life. One should expect that to be the case with respect to life's most essential issues and questions.

"Shattering" God

To my worldwide readership – all two of you – not to worry, for I have returned from my long travail. I have climbed every mountain, forded every stream, weathered every storm, taken on every challenge…um…well…actually I haven’t done any of that. Still, the journey from discombobulated thoughts to semi-coherent sentences poses its own challenges (I know some of you are thinking, "you're sentences are just fine; it's your thinking that's incoherent." Well, cut it out). I hope we’re still friends anyway.

I credit my friend and fellow Westminster blogger, David Williams, for turning my attention to this passage in CS Lewis’ “A Grief Observed” a few months ago:

My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of his presence? The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins. And most are ‘offended’ by the iconoclasm; and blessed are those who are not.

It is significant that Lewis wrote this in his last book, which, as its title states, is about grief. The grief Lewis “observed” is his own after his wife’s death from cancer. In the introduction, his stepson described the book as “one man’s studied attempts to come to grips with and in the end defeat the emotional paralysis of the most shattering grief of his life.” He further characterizes it: “This book is a man emotionally naked in his own Gethsemane. It tells of the agony and the emptiness of a grief such as few of us have to bear.”

Lewis’ candor in the book, which is really an undated “diary” of reflections in a collection of notebooks is startling as he writes what we might consider “blasphemy”: “What reason have we, except our own desperate wishes, to believe that God is, by any standard we can conceive, ‘good’? Doesn’t all the prima facie evidence suggest exactly the opposite? What have we to set against it?” But then he answers: “We set Christ against it.” Then, in his torment, he accuses: “Time after time, when he seemed most gracious. He was really preparing the next torture.” The next day he reflects: “I wrote that last night. It was a yell rather than a thought.” And Lewis the reasoner and thinker returns: “Is it rational to believe in a bad God? Anyway, in a God so bad as all that? The Cosmic Sadist, the spiteful imbecile? I think it is, if nothing else, too anthropomorphic.” Such a being “couldn’t invent, create or govern anything.” Then he descends again: “Finally, if reality at its very root is so meaningless to us – or, putting it the other way around, if we are such total imbeciles – what is the point of trying to think about God or about anything else?”

He says that we “babble” about the pain suffered by the one we love: “If only I could bear it, or the worst of it, or any of it, instead of her.” Ever sober, he continues:

But one can’t tell how serious that bid is, for nothing is staked on it. If it suddenly became a real possibility, then, for the first time, we should discover how seriously we had meant it. But is it ever allowed? It was allowed to One, we are told, and I find I can now believe again, that he has done vicariously whatever can be so done. He replies to our babble: “You cannot and you dare not. I could and I dared.”

Here we have the depth of agony and pain, unflinchingly looking into the face of reality, and not culminating in rage, bitterness, despair, nihilism, rationalization, sentiment, resignation or cynicism. If Lewis had only believed in a “nice,” sentimental god who watches us and smiles or disappointingly shakes his head “from a distance,” he never could have written this book. If he’d only believed in a god of his own making, choosing those parts he preferred and discarding the rest, he could not have written this book, for one cannot wrestle, be angry and argue with a god who only “agrees” with him. If he only believed in a god whose approval we earn by our “goodness,” he could not have written this book. If he only believed in a god who rewards “faith” with a life free from trouble or hardship, he could not have written this book. No such conceptions of God, or any other for that matter, could have survived Lewis’ experience.

Lewis was shattered and, remarkably, so was his conception of God. Yet, the shattering only deepened his understanding of this same God. For Lewis, even in the midst of his grief and sorrow, looked into the face of the incarnate God and found that his grief and sorrow had gone even deeper than his own. It is there before the person on that Roman instrument of torture and execution, abandoned, scorned and “shattered,” identifying with us as both sinful victimizers and suffering victims, and that same person raised to life now “making all things new,” dwelling with us by his Spirit, that we find the full revelation of God in the one who was most fully human. It is there we find “the treasures of wisdom and knowledge,” Col. 2:3, and catch ourselves at times surprised or even stunned, as we experience paradigm shifts on a regular basis, with the implications of it all beginning to incrementally dawn on us.