writebikerun's Xanga

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Thu, 20 Jan 2005 11:19:49 GMT

I recently wrote a paper on Athanasius, one of the foremost theologians of the Council at Nicea in 325 AD. He is responsible for doing some careful thinking and articulation of what it means that God incarnated Himself in man. Specifically, his work, On the Incarnation (De Incarnatione Verbi Dei), details in about 50 pages the essence of his understanding of Jesus as the God-Man. For me personally, this two natured characteristic of Jesus has always been hard to grasp. Athanasius has been very helpful to me.

I wanted to include the conclusion to my paper because it talks about the uniqueness of Christ in our post-modern context. Let me know what ya think!

"For ten years I worked in campus ministry. One of the popular objections to Christianity from skeptical students is the idea that if God is so powerful, why can’t he just forgive, without the cross? Couldn’t he just speak a word of forgiveness? Athanasius’ treatise speaks very relevantly to this question. He argues poignantly for the necessity of the incarnation when he says in chapter 44,

'God, if He wished to reform and to save mankind, ought to have done so by a mere fiat,
without his word taking a body… a reasonable answer would be: that formerly, nothing being in existence at all, what was needed to make everything was a fiat and the bare will to do so. But when man had once been made, and necessity demanded a cure, not for things that were not, but for things that had come to be, it was naturally consequent that the Physician and Savior should appear in what had come to be, in order also to cure the things that were. For this cause, then, He has become man, and used His body as a human instrument.'

The brilliance of this statement is how it speaks to all of the cries of the post-modern heart. There is a post-modern search for authenticity, for meaning, and for empathy. First the post-modern would concur that there is a problem: something demands a cure. Athanasius acknowledges this reality and explains that now we are in a different situation than at the beginning. Creation from nothing has happened, but now it is scarred. Thus something like creation needs to occur but different in its methodology: re-creation or restoration. I love how the reality of our brokenness is validated.

But what is so striking is the method of this re-creation. This is the part that would appeal to the post-modern: we are not glossed over with a mere word from a distant king or an absent Father. The essence of the Father King becomes incarnated in the God-Man, Son. He experiences all of the brokenness, limitation, and heartache that we experience and then ‘cures the things that were.’ And so I say to my skeptic friends, you don’t want religion of fiat. The amazing, blessed uniqueness of Christianity is that it is the very antithesis of fiat. It is flesh, emotion, passion, empathy, justice, and love. It is a solution that satisfies your deepest questions and quenches your deepest longings. He has come and done a new thing and it is glorious to behold.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Thu, 19 Aug 2004 10:02:08 GMT

I have never liked poetry. It didn’t have a plot, was really esoteric, and seemed, well, pathetically boring. But as I have started writing, preaching, and teaching, I have grown in curiosity for these men and women who craft words. My normal peregrination around a bookshop is starting to include a traipse down the poetry aisle.

I am struck by the poet’s ability to communicate so much with so little. I am attracted to the neat and tidiness, the succinctness, the beauty, the simplicity, the effort and focus to make each word count. It is reading a rifle shot rather than a machine gun. It seems in most media today we are overwhelmed by words and information-- bludgeoned with letters. But as one who talks about truth, justice, and Jesus, I can’t let words get in the way. If this is the calling God has given, I want to be so clear, attractive, and respectful of words that could give life to their hearer.

On the selfish, pragmatic side, I want to be better at what I do and I think a poet could be a guide that takes me there. If I immerse myself in their writing, maybe their respect, thoughtfulness, and carefulness will steep into my communication.

As a travelogue side note, I spent yesterday in Boston by myself. I was noticing that the introvert in me was roaring for a little love (seeing a lot of impatience with Macrae, general irritableness). So Laurel graciously helped me take the whole day to feed the introvert. I rode the train downtown and then walked for about 4 hours. It was incredible. I feel like I understand the city a lot better and can picture all the different parts. Boston is beautiful. There were two highlights. First a book store-- The Brattle Book Shop which is the oldest shop of its kind. There I found a third edition Robert Frost book of poetry and a Virginia Woolf for Laurel. I could have spent a lot longer than the hour I did looking around. The other most striking piece was all the churches. They are gorgeous with high steeples, ornate interiors, and rich history. Yet this is a place that is hardened to God and resistant to his winsome wooing. It surprisingly drew me to prayer. I asked Jesus to again pour out his Spirit in this place, to bring hope, to bring healing, and I began to wonder if this might be a place that He calls my family to serve.

I wonder if it would be a john 12 kernel of wheat dying that we would be called to. What would that cost my family?

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Wed, 18 Aug 2004 10:26:28 GMT

I’m Scared
I had breakfast with Bobby last week. I was talking about how I was doing here. I was all over the place. But generally I was like, what I am I doing here? Should I go get my MBA? Should I go get my MFA in creative writing? Do I have to be a pastor? Could I just get a normal job? So having some vocational questions.

But I kept talking and what I got to was, “Is this real?” Is Jesus really who he says he is? Is God really good? There are some significant doubts in my heart. They have always been there I think, but at times of deeper intimacy with God it is easier to be more confident in the veracity of who He says he is. I do know this, IF God is who he says he is, then the career I am considering is a great one to pursue. But one of my core fears, that I need to be healed of is what if God is not who he says he is?

Then I should try and get as much money as possible, as much power and influence as possible, use as many people as needed to get what I want, and as much stuff as possible for the 70 years on this earth. If He is not, then I am a fool to try and live the life I am living and to try and do the job I am trying to do. The words of Paul were comforting to me this morning. In 1 Corinthians 15 Paul says it is all about the resurrection. If is THE event that gives us hope if it is true, and if it is not should cause us to be greatly pitied. So I don’t know a lot of apologetic about the resurrection and it is not a part of my day to day relationship with Jesus. But I feel like it is something that I need to explore in my prayer life and practically apply the theology of it to various categories of my life. How does the fact that God raised Jesus and others from the dead inform my experience of day to day life.

Some day I want to not have doubts. I want to be free from sin and temptation. I want to love my family well. I want to love Jesus.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

Sun, 18 Jul 2004 10:43:33 GMT

Yesterday I spent most of the day setting up our bookshelves in the living room. This was actually an incredibly comforting process. I love my books. They are beautiful. I like what they say about me. I would like it more if I had read them all. Again on the image thing… I like the idea of who I might be if I had read all of them.

But ideas are important to me. David Taylor told me a long time ago that he wanted to be a shepherd of ideas and a shepherd of people. That seems to be a fairly good job description for a pastor. I feel called to be a cultural critic. Culture seems to be this rushing river that grabs you and sweeps you downstream. I feel “grabbed” when I am consumed with ‘want’-- whether it is for stuff or fame or significance or power. There are times when I feel like I just want to step into this river for a bit, feel the water. But as soon as I do, I’m grabbed, pulled along. What are my symptoms of grabbedness? Stress, dissatisfaction, impatience with my family… not sure. It seems like it would be helpful to define 2 things: first the river and its appeal, its characteristics and second, to a deeper extent what it looks like when I am bobbing along, my head barely above the surface.

But I ask the question primarily because I get excited about the role of a pastor in relation to the river. It seems that the pastor-- as cultural critic, shepherd of ideas and truth, and actively engaged as shepherd of people-- it seems that it is the pastor who installs poles deep into the riverbed. Poles that can stand against the rushing current, that are constant. Poles that folks who are rushing along, carried by the ‘mainstream’ can grab for life, for respite, for bearing, for orientation. I want to work on my wording of that because it sounds polemical and it is meant to be descriptive. Are some descriptions polemical by their very nature? The very act or vocation of being a ‘pole planter’ is polemical because in its nature you are saying there is a river that needs poles…

I am glad I get three years to wrestle on this nascent idea. I’ve got a lot of reflection, thinking, and processing to do.

Saturday, July 17, 2004

Sat, 17 Jul 2004 10:29:34 GMT

I am in a beautiful place. The weather is amazing-- crisp in the morning, sunny in the day so that you appreciate the shade, rainy in the afternoon so that you appreciate the sun. The trees are splendid-- tall, majestic, they swoop over the roads creating these canopies for your driving, running, and riding pleasure. Clouds accent the monotony of blue and turn the sky into something with a personality, moods, that are constantly changing. It looks like what happens when you first drop food coloring accidentally into a batch of cookies. As you start to stir, the coloring is intense and localized, streaky, swirled. After about twenty strokes of the spoon, there are soft palettes in the cookies that are alongside the streaks. The day I discovered this I was trying to make a special treat for Laurel. But unfortunately I can’t remember why I dropped the food coloring into an innocent, unsuspecting batch of cookies.

Yesterday we set up a new tent. Camping is an activity that our family has been looking forward to in this move. There were plenty of opportunities to camp in Texas, but we never did. I don’t know why, but it makes me question whether we will up here. I always seem to get excited about the image of something and don’t always follow through. I love the ‘idea’ of being a camper. I hope I love camping.

The tent is huge. It’s actually a nylon Holiday Inn. We felt a bit self-conscious as we set it up in the seminary courtyard. Folks were rubber-necking from the second and third floor windows-- “What are those new folks up to??” It has some room dividers and Macrae will love having his own little space (as will Bennett when he realizes he can have his own little space.J) We plan to head to New Hampshire next week for a State Park Visit. I think I can’t wait!! Unfortunately neither can the bighting flies…

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Thu, 15 Jul 2004 10:23:18 GMT

I am trying to develop my writing. I have decided to write 250 words every day and see what comes out... thus the 'writing the bad to get to the good' title for the site. I will post them occasionally and would love thoughts and comments. There's just too much inside. Here is one of the first...

So writing everyday is going to be a discipline. It is hard not to want to do something else and hard to choose what to write on. Repeat to yourself David, “I am learning. It takes time to develop this.” I think any writing is time well spent at this stage.

There is a playground here at Gordon-Conwell. It is a veritable ‘end of the rainbow’ experience for any kid still under 5. Over the years, as families pull up roots, load up trucks, and head down the hill, they invariably leave the toys their toddlers no longer like. Those well-loved treasures have amassed at the playground. A dump truck with no steering wheel, a back hoe with a broken arm, wheel barrows with supports that fall off, me-me cars with wheels that don’t turn. Bright colors, a field of plastic, all poised in the position last touched by the glee of a three-year old, ready to jump into play at a moment’s notice.

The playground itself is only about 1000 square feet. It is covered in pebbled rock, sticks, and leaves. Someone cared enough to plant a geranium in the tire that serves as a flag pole base. Macrae enjoys denuding it of all flowers and petals, several times a day. The thing doesn’t have a chance. Macrae always seems to win these wars.

As one sits in what has affectionately come to be known as Macrae’s office and stares outward, the scene is verdant and lush. Years ago, the trustees of this place generously carved the playground out of the central lawn of the campus. It is a bit of a juxtaposition. Stately trees and a warped, decaying fort; manicured grass and driveway gravel; serious students in the throes of theological articulation and serious three year olds in the glee of side by side play.

But this lawn invites running. As you walk or drive by, you want to just take off at a wild pace with your arms waving in frenzied glee. It rolls slightly downhill from the playground and the green-ness creates the mirage that you could almost take flight from the speed of your descent. It’s beautiful. It’s lush. It’s full of sea gulls.

15 minutes away is the beach. The ocean birds have heard of the grass and they like to drop in during the late afternoon. As 20 or 30 of them land, they look like marshmallows in my Grandma’s green jellow salad. Macrae has a relationship to birds that is similar to his one with flowers. If he could catch them, he would take each of them home for his mommy and maybe pull off their feathers. He takes off in a mad sprint across the beautiful grass towards the waiting marshmallows. Over and over as he gets close, the birds ascend, wondering why a mere land-based creature would think he could catch them. But I love how undeterred Macrae is. It is a beautiful picture-- this miniature little man, running at full speed over the green carpet, chasing these uncatchable birds with full expectation that they will wait for him and let him touch them.

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Thu, 15 Jul 2004 10:20:22 GMT

After some great friends read this last summer, I thought I would take a shot at it. As I am currently in a season of reflection and discernment, it has been helpful to think about what an excellent life would look like.