Validity of the Bible: Responses (Originally posted June 2007)

Allow me to preface with an apology for any rehashing that may be done in my attempted response as I would like to take this opportunity to organize my thoughts on assorted topics that have at least some relevance to the topic at hand. I feel I have very limited credentials to speak on much of what has been raised and for that reason I will give more treatment to some of the issues than others.

First, as to the origins of the canon. I’m sure it goes without being said that, as far as we know, none of the New Testament writers wrote with the intention of having their works canonized. So how’d it happen? I appreciate your five possible logical explanations for why the NT canon came together and I realize what I am about to say furthers the plight of the skeptic, but is it possible that the gathering of the canon came about by way of supernatural guidance? It would be nice to assume that closer to the event of Jesus’ incarnation there would be a deeper spirituality among God’s people. We are talking about people who supposed lived within just a few generations of the most revolutionary figure in all of history. These people’s great grandparents had seen Jesus. You get the idea. So perhaps their faith was so strong and God’s plan was so out of the ordinary that he used unparalleled guidance by the Holy Spirit to direct those responsible for assembling the canon very specifically as to what to include and what not and so on and so forth.

Moving on to the dating of the Biblical texts. I think the dating of the book of Acts is imperative in the dating of the gospels, which I would say is the most important dates we need to get right. We know that Acts was the second part of a letter written by Luke to “His Excellency” Theophilus. Accepting the assumption that Luke is a reliable historian (which I might add is the normal supposition made when examining the writing of all other historical figures [innocent until proven guilty]) one must wonder why Luke does not include two things in the book of Acts: 1. The Destruction of the Temple- AD 70 2. The death of the Apostle Paul (one of the book’s central figures)- AD 62. If you are willing to follow out the logic, you’d see that the reasonable explanation would be that the book of Acts would have been written before either of these two crucial dates. Going backwards, that would mean that the Gospel of Luke came before AD 62 and since Luke contains parts of Mark, as does Matthew, (Mark being the earliest Gospel) we have the Gospel of Mark being written very near Jesus’ death. Even if you don’t buy into that argument, consider this: Scholars, even liberals, put Mark in the 70s, Matthew and Luke in the 80s, and John in the 90s (generally). So, that is a window anywhere from about 40-70 years of Jesus’ death. That is two generations at best. Compare that with the two earliest biographies of Alexander the Great (I owe such a comparison to Lee Strobel). His two earliest biographies were written by Arrian and Plutarch more than four hundred years after his death in 323 BC. Historians consider these to be generally trustworthy. In the case of Jesus, we are talking about twice as many biographies in less than a fourth of the time.

Finally, in regards to the Bible being “self-authoritative”. We know that the NT’s authority is rooted in the apostles who are the foundation of the household of God (Eph. 2:20). This makes sense since Jesus promised in John 16:13-14, “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, for he will take what is mine and declare it to you.” So, ultimately, the NT’s authority is rooted in Jesus and we can work backwards from there to hear what Jesus said about the OT like Matt. 5:18 where Jesus claims, “truly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished.” And I am sure you are familiar with tons of other NT verses like that that affirm the OT’s canonicity. I realize that it gets a little hairy to tell a skeptic, “the Bible is the Word of God because it says it is the Word of God and since it’s the Word of God I believe it.” But think of it this way. Imagine in a court of law the prosecutor is making his case for why he thinks the defendant is guilty and the defense attorney rises to object. The judge asks on what grounds does he object and he responds, “On the grounds that the prosecutor who is making this case actually believes the case he is making is true.” That is, analogously, what the authors of the Bible are so often accused of. I think this is especially prevalent when skeptics look at the gospel writers. They claim, “oh, these people had an agenda, therefore the fabricated nonsense they recorded is just that, nonsense.” But to borrow an analogy from Strobel:

Some people, usually for anti-Semitic purposes, deny or downplay the horrors of the Holocaust. But it has been the Jewish scholars who’ve created museums, written books, preserves artifacts, and documented eyewitness testimony concerning the Holocaust.
Now they have a very ideological purpose – namely, to ensure that such an atrocity never occurs again – but they have also been the most faithful and objective in their reporting of historical truth.

So it is with the gospel-writers. I recognize much of my focus has been on the gospels specifically rather than our broader intended scope of the entire Bible, but I really feel like Jesus has to be the starting point in apologetics. Seriously, if we measure time (or used to before they came up with the politically correct BCE/CE crap) according to the time of the man’s death he probably should be where we start when it comes to defending/working out our faith’s issues.

The Validity of the Bible: Part 1 (Originally posted June 2007)

This issue seems, from every angle, to be one of unique ambiguity. For the purposes of this forum, I will focus my questions to the following issues regarding the validity of the Bible: One, the origins of the canon; two, the methods of dating biblical texts by both conservative and liberal theologians; and three, the specific relevancies of the argument (as it effects the authority, reliability, and application of the text for the Christian; and how the perspective of the secularist might be undermined if their assumptions were properly challenged). This is a question which I’m sure others will be better suited to answer, but I’ll do my best to introduce the topic.

As for the origins of the canon (those books included in our modern Bibles and considered to be “inspired” by God), it seems an issue up for debate. It is clear that, even from several thousand year B.C., Jewish believers operated by observance of particular texts considered to be inspired by God. For instance, Daniel 9:2 reads: “…in the first year of his reign, I, Daniel, understood from the Scriptures, according to the word of the Lord given to Jeremiah the prophet, that the desolation of Jerusalem would last seventy years.” Also, it is known that certain biblical texts were commonly read aloud at the feasts of Israel. These include Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Esther. If I remember my conversation with you correctly, the entire Old Testament was compiled and canonized - although perhaps not formally - by approximately 300 B.C. The New Testament books were canonized at a later date, the time and circumstances of which I can’t seem to nail down (granted, I’ve only asked around rather than researched the issue personally). If someone could supplement this issue, I would appreciate it.

So, where did the concept of canonization come from? I’m only guessing, but I suppose that part of the explanation involves our innate expectation that God would reveal Himself in a written account, as He has historically and as inferred through the person of Jesus Christ (as supported by the theology of His disciples - see, for example, John 1:1-18). The logic goes something like this:

1. God’s original revelation of Himself came via the Law, originally divinely transcribed on stone tablets and later expanded into written law.
2. God spoke through the prophets, who left written accounts of their prophecies.
3. The Messiah was both foretold in scripture and later validated by it (Luke 24:27, John 13:18, John 19:28, etc.)
4. God described Himself through these prior methods in terms of “word made flesh” (Ps. 119, etc.); this concept was also incorporated into New Testament theology (Heb. 1:1-3, Heb. 4:12, John 1:1-18; Col. 3:16; 2 Tim. 3:16, Rom. 9:17, Gal. 3:8, 2 Peter 1:20)
5. The retrospective evidence of having the word of God prove true in the lives of believers (Rom. 12:2-3, Rom. 2:15, 2 Cor. 3:18, James 1:22-25).

This last point is an example of how the Bible could be considered self-authoritative. If anyone would like to expound on this concept - specifically, how the Bible itself can be a legitimate testimony of its own validity - I would appreciate it. Points 1-4 are hardly worth considering if the Bible’s self-authoritative claims cannot be reasonably validated.

Anyway, it seems that Christians are very comfortable with the interpretation, application, and the concept of scriptural authority (particularly in regards to directing their lives and providing promises of eternal security), but seem alarmingly less clear on how the Bible came to be and from where its authority is drawn. Like my previous points have suggested, the strongest argument I’ve found so far as to the Bible’s validity is one which could very easily be considered a circular argument. As damning as the terminology sounds, I think there’s room to bolster that argument (that the Bible is self-authoritative) with clear logic and sound reason. Indeed, science espouses its fair share of self-authoritative theories as well. Quantum mechanics, for example, relies on a sort of retrospective proof which science seems to regard as quite convincing. As Dawkins writes, “Quantum mechanics, that rarefied pinnacle of twentieth-century scientific achievement, makes brilliantly successful predictions about the real world. Richard Feynman compared its precision to predicting the distance as great as the width of North American to an accuracy on one human hair’s breadth. This predictive success seems to mean that quantum theory has got to be true in some sense…yet the assumptions that quantum theory needs to make, in order to deliver those predictions, are so mysterious that even the great Feynman himself was moved to remark…: ‘If you think you understand quantum theory…you don’t understand quantum theory.’” (The God Delusion, pg. 364-365) Having said that, could the Bible’s authority be of a similar kind as that of quantum mechanics, gaining credence from the fruit it produces rather than upon the claims/assumptions it makes? What are your thoughts on this, since you introduced me to the term “self-authoritative” in the first place?

Terms of Release (Originally posted October 2007)

Ok...someone help me answer this question. Let's suppose for a moment, hypothetically, that there was no God. Let us say also that our "devotions" are exactly what they often feel like: us in an empty room, talking to ourselves, trying desperately to read the silence, etc, etc...Assuming this were the reality, how would we get out from under our responsibility to it? In other words, how do we release ourselves from the feeling of accountability to constantly attend to the silence? When is it ok to say, ‘the silence will not speak back, and that's ok, it was never meant to?’ Or, as Christians, have we resigned by default to both attendances - that is, to the prospect of a real God as well as to silence? (Do we accept both in hopes that the one is true. And is the alternative equally as inclusive - we break ties to one at risk of defying the other?).

The thing is, I am at a place in my life where the strength of my desire to worship God is rivaled very closely by a competing desire to defy attendance to a non-entity (that is, silence). Somehow over the course of time, my relationship with God has become completely exasperating, and I feel as though if I don't find a way out, I'm going to lose it. Even though I ask for a way out, I'm not looking to take it. I just feel like I have to know, under the circumstance that all of this proves empty, that a Christian (who claims to live in daily communion with the REAL GOD) would eventually catch on.

But, if that possibility is open, if that prospect really exists, show it to me. What can't God do - or NOT do - within the confines of His arrangement with us? You would expect that, under the terms of relationship, God would abide by the generally agreed upon "rules of engagement." It was He who condescended to that position, He who established the grounds by which we are to approach Him, so then why is He allowed such liberality in the dispensation of His love to us? How contrary to His revealed nature can He behave before we can legitimately conclude that the "face" we (Christians) have given Him/believed Him to have cannot, within good reason, be accurate of Him (that is, whom-/whatever we imply by the term divine nature).

John Piper writes, "If God withholds Himself from our contemplation and companionship, no matter what else He gives us, He is not loving." (Desiring God, pg. 48) But even within those boundaries, our God exercises surprising freedom. Please, someone, show me a single instance in which our concept of intimacy with God has any more substance to it than your run-of-the-mill superstition. Tell me also where the substance lies in our dialogue with God that so distinguishes it from attendance to pure silence. How would the Christian recognize their God’s absence/non-existence? I can’t tell you how much I need an answer to this question…At my pastor's direction, I’ve been trying to perform all the disciplines that might be required of my situation without sensing God’s presence. All I want to know is how I can participate in the life God promised me, but no one seems to have the answer.

It deeply concerns me that what I consider to be the most essential aspect of my relationship with God is the same part that is largely ignored by my Christian counselors. Their counsel always follows the pattern, “this first, that later.” In other words, before we tell you how to simply have God, to abide in His love or participate in His offer of life, let’s tend to this or that auxiliary doctrine. They are always talking around; but what happens if we direct our attention right at the thing we desire? Is God something we can only allude to? Can He only be experienced through some peripheral approach? My experience in approaching God has been very similar to that experience we’ve all had, when we really examine a close friends face and realize, though we thought it was so familiar to us, we didn’t really know it. Or when you say a familiar word over and over again until the sound of it really sinks in to your brain, and you realize, you had never really considered it before. We become familiar with these things, desensitized to them really, through our common usage of them without ever having to know them for their own sake. Most people will never realize that their knowledge of God is really more a numb familiarity with Him attained through frequency of use. It usually requires some form of suffering to ever need that truer, more direct knowledge of Him. As John 11:9 reminds us, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? A man who walks by day will not stumble, for he sees by this world’s light. It is when he walks by night that he stumbles, for he has no light.” How dependent have we become upon our conventions to conceptualize God and mediate our approach of Him? These things are mere adornments, embellishments, non-essentials. “Only one thing is needed,” says Jesus (Luke 10:42), and yet it is the one thing I can’t gain access to.

Mother Teresa wrote once upon receiving an important prize in the Philippines, “This means nothing, because I don’t have Him.” Note that she said the prize means nothing because she doesn’t have Him. Imagine now that our attendance, though believed to be toward God, was actually given only to silence. How pitiable would it be if our unchallenged allegiances turned out to be wasted on a non-entity, a nothing, and that we had allowed a lifetime to go by allowing our lack of reply from a indifferent silence spoil every other potential enjoyment? How much more pitiable to be given up front every resource by which to dismiss this silence (that is, promises to which it is accountable), but to never give ear to those concerns? I mean, really, there must be a pretty significant distinction between our worship and this lower attendance. We claim to worship the true God, and moreover, to commune with Him daily! To lack the capacity to discern His presence or absence in our lives seems as ridiculous a notion to me as having a blue whale take up residence in my living room, getting in my car for work, and not being able to recall whether or not he was there that morning.

But that is where I am…I feel like Orual, on the precipice of having to make a decision about Psyche’s welfare in light of her confession of marriage to a god (Till We Have Faces, pg. 102-176)…I know what all good reason tells me, and I feel entirely justified in the conclusion I have drawn, but I know equally well how unaccommodating are the gods. I fear divorce from the silence at the risk of betraying my responsibility before the Divine, for which I will certainly not be excused. I have before I make my decision, the knowledge which Orual found too late. And yet, I am no better for it. We stand on the same ground: “You must guess the riddle. Not a word will come to you until you have guessed wrong and they all come crowding back to accuse and mock and punish you for it.” (ibid, 150)

“[The god] had made it to be as if, from the beginning, I had known that Psyche’s lover was a god, and as if all my doubtings, fears, guessings, debatings, questionings of Bardia, questionings of the Fox, all the rummage and business of it, had been trumped-up foolery, dust blown in my eyes by myself.” (ibid., 173)

Pursuit of the Ideal: Part 2 (Originally posted November 2007)

I. Destroyed by Introspection: The Anatomy of a Dream

It would be difficult to make the case that all this ‘matter’ which we perceive with our higher faculties - every so-called spiritual experience, every recognition of divine providence, every feeling of responsibility to higher law - is no more than a contrivance of our poetical minds; that is, if it were not for the wide availability of like phenomena in our daily experience. Phenomena which, opportunely, are much simpler to debase. As one instance, let’s consider dreams.

According to one theory, dreams are explained as “random images and random feelings which our unconscious minds attempt to integrate into a semi-intelligible plot.” Why our brains might have evolved to perform such a behavior is obvious. We are highly cognitive creatures whose primary survival adaptation is a brain highly adept at orienting itself in a world of vast and confusing sensory stimuli. In other words, a dream is the result of all the brain’s specialized components performing their natural function in a less than accommodating context. But do they have any inherent meaning? Absolutely not.

This function of the brain to impart meaning to the random and disjointed fragments we call dreams has also the curious effect of misleading us into belief. What I mean is, when we wake up, we do not at first recognize the dream for what it is but are instead under the impression its plot is intelligible. And as long as we are under the spell, we might venture to tell others what our dream was about. Only then, when we focus our direct attention on it, is the spell broken. We remember that during the part where we were walking in the park with our girlfriend, our girlfriend was sometimes replaced with someone else, sometimes even something else (a goat, maybe?)…and the park was only sometimes a park; other times, the mall. Perhaps this phenomenon is what lies behind the curse in Cinderella: after the clock strikes twelve, the horse-drawn carriage reverts back to the giant pumpkin shell, the beautiful dress into tattered rags, etc.

In summary, a defining characteristic of a dream is that it can only be alluded to. If we are to properly enjoy or experience them, it must be by a peripheral approach. Dreams simply will not - can not - survive our direct scrutiny. In this context, hear Lewis’ description of Joy, which he ultimately understood to be the “voice” that beckoned Him to conversion.

“Because I was still young and the whole world of beauty was opening before me, my own officious obstructions were often swept aside and, startled into self-forgetfulness, I again tasted Joy. But far more often I frightened away by my greedy impatience to snare it, and, even when it came, instantly destroyed it by introspection, and at all times vulgarized it by my false assumptions about its nature.” (Surprised by Joy, pg. 163)

“Destroyed by introspection”, though perhaps not definitively so, is a characteristic suggestive of unreality. It is at least one quality which we have to chalk up as a similarity between the realm of fiction and the realm occupied by the promises of Christianity. If this first evidence of the substance of Christianity seems at all insubstantial, hear the next:

“The second glimpse [of joy] came through Squirrel Nutkin; through it only, though I loved all the Beatrix Potter books. But the rest of them were merely entertaining; it administered the shock, it was a trouble. It troubled me with what I can only describe as the Idea of Autumn. It sounds fantastic to say that one can be enamored of a season, but that is something like what happened; and, as before, the experience was one of intense desire. And one went back to the book, not to gratify the desire (that was impossible - how can one possess Autumn?) but to reawake it.” (Surprised by Joy, pg. 14)

This one, for reason of sheer peculiarity, might have slipped by me (or over my head) had I not experienced Joy in the same way many times before. It may have even then retained some weight in my mind had I not soon afterward heard Kris Lobasz exclaim on one particularly crisp Autumn day, “Aah, God is good…it’s weird, but the weather has such an effect on my spiritual life!” Then I began to wonder…Why not, if our brains impart such meaning to the obviously meaningless context of dreams, wouldn’t it be similarly inclined to attach meaning to other contexts? Certainly there is clearer line of logic leading from the input datum: “I am infatuated with Autumn” to the conclusion: “My brain has incidentally ascribed undue significance to this experience” than the alternative conclusion: “The spiritual world has just communicated itself through the medium of Autumn.” Yet we are often convinced by the latter…

II. Romance

As another example, consider the experience of romantic infatuation. Again, we have a highly specialized function of our brain applying itself to an unaccommodating context. Stimulated by the notion of finding a mate, all of our vested faculties begin performing their respective jobs. We are all too familiar with the role of certain other reproductive faculties and its often inopportune jump into action; and the brain is certainly no exception. Without much regard for timing or propriety, our minds can begin creating a fairytale storyline with the most unreciprocated love interest. We start to hang on every word that passes between us and our “crush”, imparting meaning where she meant none and receiving signs of her returned interest when, in reality, “it’s all in our heads”. It’s purposeful imagination - a term that makes me awfully uncomfortable. The moment the kid who pretends to be a pony begins thinking he is in fact a pony, we have a problem. It is important that our recreational imagination never bleeds into the realm of reality, and it seems that at least in two instances, it does just that.

It’s worth noting that romanticism seems to be one of those qualities that people possess to varying degrees. “To each a measure was given.” Consequently, the resultant tendencies might not be properly appreciated by those to whom a smaller measure is given. For some (we have all heard the tale of Don Quixote), the draw of romance seems to be the predominant factor influencing their behavior and decision-making processes. Perhaps for these individuals the world is colored even more vibrantly, their experiences seemingly more infused with heavenly whispers, than is the average man’s. Hence, romance can go somewhat haywire, drive a man into obsession or, as the story goes, battles with windmills.

III. Conclusion

This discussion has been more or less an attempt to answer the question posed in the first: What realization might drive a man to dismiss the desire which is so fundamental to his nature? What might man experience, or what path of reason might he follow, to ultimately concede that the thing most desired by him was mere moonshine, a pleasant fiction? It is my hope that I have demonstrated with an honest consideration of the competing evidences, that such a resignation might, in may instances, be a sincere response to the apparent facts of our existence. And, as I previously suggested, it may be the most passionate lovers of heaven that are most susceptible to disbelief in it.

What is happening spiritually when man sobers up and confesses, “It is too good to be true”? I think this sentiment on the lips of a Christian ought to concern us more than it does. Is such a confession not a resignation of their hope in the very promises of scripture - that which I even went so far as to call the centerpiece of the Bible? The fact that our experiences in this world often fall short - even fly in the face - of our biblical hope is inescapable. It is a weighty truth; one which every Christian - if they consider themselves true lovers of home - should make an attempt to reconcile. If we sleep on this task, may we find ourselves also on the receiving end of the Psalmist’s curse:

“If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill. May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy.” (Ps. 137:5-6)

It’s time we become accountable to the hope inside us…not only to preach it, but to live by it; to feed and nurture it until this unaccommodating existence feels tight around us, like big fish in a small pond. We need to get to the place where we truly understand why people become disbelievers; where we ourselves run the greatest risk of it because we are such passionate lovers of home. I understand how naturally the blessings of this life - whether dispensed coincidentally or providentially - can serve to assuage our hunger for the substance of God’s promises (Dan. 1:8), but there are simply too many Christians out there who glaze over when you speak mournfully of home. We should understand better than anyone the pain of being restricted from living true to our design, true to the life intended for us. If we don’t feel it ourselves, if we lack that perspective, then let us exercise those spiritual disciplines which draw it out of us: self-denial (Dan. 1:8, 1 Cor. 7:5), fasting (Is. 58), and service (Eph. 4:1-16, Phil. 2:3). Whatever it takes to remember home, let’s do it.

“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill. May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy.” (Ps. 137:1-6)

[Further reading on this subject includes: Heaven: The Heart’s Deepest Longing (Peter Kreeft); The Republic, pgs. 63-83, 319, 334-336 (Plato); The Abolition of Man, Ch. 1 (C.S. Lewis); Mere Christianity (C.S. Lewis); The Weight of Glory: Is Theology Poetry (C.S. Lewis); Surprised by Joy (C.S. Lewis); Epic (John Eldredge); Wild at Heart (John Eldredge); Dan. 7:27; Matt. 3:2, 5:1-12, 6:5-15, 27:11; Heb. 11:8-10, 13-16, 24-27; John 4:20-24; 2 Tim. 4:18; Rev. 11:15]

Pursuit of the Ideal: Part 1 (Originally posted November 2007)

I. Place That Does Not Exist

“I understand [that you are speaking of] the city of which we are the founders, and which exists in idea only; for I do not believe that there is such a one anywhere on earth.
In heaven, I replied, there is laid up a pattern of it, methinks, which he who desires may behold, and beholding, may set his own house in order. But whether such a one exists, or ever will exist in fact, is no matter; for he will live after the manner of that city, having nothing to do with any other.” (The Republic, pg. 318)

Throughout history, regardless of their cultural or geographical context, mankind has pursued an idyllic existence. This longing for the ideal manifests itself in many ways, most notably through the varying mythological representations of the world’s religions. Such “utopian” existences, such as Eden / heaven (Christianity), Shambhala / Nirvana (Buddhist), and Moksha (Hindu) tell the story of our pursuit and bear witness to what is written on our hearts. The desire for such an existence has been the driving force behind many of mankind’s greatest achievements. It fueled the construction of the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the dozens of utopian communities such as New Harmony and Fountain Grove. Furthermore, it inspired the great literary works, The Republic (Plato), Utopia (Thomas More), and The City of God (Augustine of Hippo). Hints of it saturate nearly every movie, novel, and work of art which man has created. In other words, our pursuit of the ideal touches everything in our otherwise non-ideal existence. As Lewis stated, “Man is a poetical creature and touches nothing that he does not adorn (The Weight of Glory, pg. 126).”

Notice also that mankind’s attainment of such an existence, as it is most often communicated in religious / mythical language, is depicted as a return or homecoming. Mankind seems to believe that they are not merely trying to reach this idyllic existence - that is, as something formerly unknown - but rather to reclaim it. Listen even to the Wikipedia summary of the subject: “All these myths also express some hope that the idyllic state of affairs they describe is not irretrievably and irrevocably lost to mankind, that it can be regained in some way or other.” I’d be willing to bet you that whoever wrote that wasn’t even conscious of how unusual it is that we would use such phrases as “irretrievably lost” and “regained” to describe something which has never existed - as far as any of us are aware - in our earthly experience.

The imagery which the Bible devotes to this theme is considerable. It could quite easily be argued that our reclamation of this existence through the redemptive work of Christ is the centerpiece of Judeo-Christian literature. Again and again and again the picture is painted: through man’s genesis in Eden, to the many intermediate exoduses (Deut. 8:) and exiles (Ps. 137:1-4) which serve as archetypal reminders of our loss of it, to the coming of our Messiah whose death on the cross sealed our hearts in heavenly citizenship (Dan. 7:27; Matt. 27:11; John 4:20-24; Phil. 3:17-21), to the ultimate restoration of Eden at Christ’s return (Is. 65:17-25; Rev. 11:15, 20-22, 21:1-4). The verse below echoes the cry of every displaced citizen of heaven:

“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?” (Ps. 137:1-4)

Every ounce of man’s being cries out for this heavenly existence, and so Christians often refer to those who deny this desire, “lost” (Luke 15:24). In other words, the only logical explanation for someone no longer recognizing or acknowledges their desire to “return to Eden” is that they have become lost or disoriented. There are simply no solid grounds for outright denial of this desire; this quality is fundamentally human. But what realization might drive a man, as it apparently has so many, to dismiss this desire which is so fundamental to his nature? What might man experience, or what path of reason might he follow, to ultimately concede that the thing most desired by him was mere moonshine, a pleasant fiction?

During my studies on this subject, I was interested to discover that the word “utopia” in Greek literally means, “no place”, or “place that does not exist.” The word in itself contains a story - perhaps more accurately, a tragedy - of man’s ultimate loss of Eden: disbelief. Skepticism. Resignation of hope. As Jon McLaughlin sings, “We could chase the whole world around, but nothing this good will end up as it should…” And just like that, our “castle in the sky” comes crashing back down to earth. We children of Zion hang up our harps and stop singing songs of home (Ps. 137:1-4).

II. Pursuing the End of the Rainbow

As passionately as man might pursue the idyllic existence he believes in will he also strive to affirm the truth about its nature. Perhaps it is even the most passionate lovers of heaven (of home) that are most susceptible to disbelief in it. When your greatest desire is the stuff of dreams, a passionate man will take whatever steps necessary to distinguish the object of his love from mere fantasy. Hence the founders of Plato’s ideal State legislate strict censorship of fiction in poetry. For the philosophers in the Republic, the love of wisdom (“philos” and “sophia” meaning literally “to love wisdom”) necessitated legislation which would preserve its integrity against the threat of being detrimentally mingled with fiction:

“Then the first thing will be to establish a censorship of the writers of fiction, and let the censors receive any tale of fiction which is good, and reject the bad; and we will desire mothers and nurses to tell their children the authorized ones only. Let them fashion the mind with such tales, even more fondly than they mould the body with their hands; but most of those which are now in use must be discarded…
By which stories do you mean, he said; and what fault do you find with them?
A fault that is most serious, I said; the fault of telling a lie, and, what is more, a bad lie.
But when is this fault committed?
Whenever an erroneous representation is made of the nature of gods and heroes - as when a painter paints a portrait not having the shadow of a likeness to the original.” (The Republic, pg. 63)

“And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this our defense serve to show the reasonableness of our former judgment in sending away our of our State an art having the tendencies which we have described; for reason constrained us. But that she may not impute to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her there is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there are many proofs…Notwithstanding this, let us assure our sweet friend…that if she will only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered State we shall be delighted to receive her - we are very conscious of her charms; but we may not on that account betray the truth…If her defense fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are enamored of something, but put a restraint upon themselves when they think their desires are opposed to their interests, so, too, must we after the manner of lovers give her up, though not without a struggle…but so long as she is unable to make good her defense, this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will repeat to ourselves while we listen to her strains; that we may not fall away into the childish love of her which captivates the many…” (The Republic, pg. 335-336)

As John Piper would insist, the Christian hedonist would be driven by his intense desire for God to know Him as He truly is and to attain the life he offers fundamentally as it is. That is my goal also: to establish the themes of Christianity - those same themes that inspire and impassion me to tireless pursuit of Him - as truth, and also to disentangle them from the many fictions which surround and intrude upon them. As Plato writes,

“…I do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that knowledge of their true nature is the only antidote to them..” (The Republic, pg. 319)

III. Is Theology Poetry?

So, the concern here which we may now apply to the larger discussion, is that “poetry” (that term used to imply all themes, ideas, and images which our hearts find naturally attractive) provides a natural gateway into our hearts, and a kind of “backdoor” to belief, which might prove subversive to right behavior in instances that the subject of that poetry is untrue. Plato’s solution, as we now know, was censorship. But the fact that Plato believed poetry could be effectively censored indicates that he had some criteria in mind by which to separate those subjects that were fictional in nature from those that were true. And when the subject of concern is, say, “the nature of gods and heroes,” this task becomes a little more difficult.

Imagine that Poetry and Truth lie on opposite sides of a gulf which separates them. We can call this gulf Ignorance. In order to accomplish what was desired by the founders of the ideal State, we would need a means by which to test each subject of poetry for its respective truth or falsehood. What we need is a bridge. We might imagine this bridge to be constructed of a series of criteria, and only those poetical subjects which also possess the integrity of truth would survive the test and successfully transfer from one side of the gulf to the other.

If we could develop such a series of criteria so as to bridge the gulf between the realm of poetry and the realm of truth, we could effectively censor fictional poetry from entering that gateway of our hearts and thus exclude it from being integrated into belief. Furthermore, we could retain that poetry whose subject matter is true and useful, and so also benefit from the inspiration it naturally produces to live according to that truth. There is no quicker route to good or evil than through the inspiration of the heart.

The doctrines of Christianity thrive best by attaching themselves to the heart (hence God chose a heart-centered religion - Prov. 4:23), but are grounded / find their authority in their assertion of truth. Consequently, we would like for the qualities we find in Christianity (particularly those that are naturally appealing to the heart) to be in keeping with those qualities of truth, and conversely, to share few or none of those qualities characteristic of fiction. Maybe we can’t, at this very moment, establish an infallible series of criteria by which separate the realm of poetry from that of truth, but might we take at least a few steps into it and see at least how the situation appears?

If we were to attempt a preliminary investigation into the matter, how could we go about it? In this instance, I think it is easier to rule out those subjects included within the realm of poetry (reference my list above) that are fictional in nature than it is to rule in by any a priori determination of their truth. So, taking what is available to us, let us explore the weakest, the most examinable, of the subjects and see what qualities it possesses. Perhaps from that point, we can simply define the other by exclusion (for instance, subject A, which is known to be fictional, possesses qualities A, B, and C; therefore, subject B, whose nature remains unknown, must possess some qualities other than A, B, or C in order to be qualified as probably true). For this purpose, let’s look at the dream.

The Divine Dialogue: Part 3 (Originally posted October 2007)

Preface: Time magazine article, “Her Agony”
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1655720,00.html

I. To Feed on God

“Jesus said to them, ‘I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him. Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Your forefathers ate manna and died, but he who feeds on this bread will live forever.’” (John 6:53-58)

One thing is clear from this passage: we have no true life outside of Christ. Jesus’ comparison between the sustenance which comes by feeding our bodies on earthly bread and the sustenance which comes by feeding our souls on the bread of heaven (Christ Himself), is central to this passage. Jesus uses this comparison not only to emphasize the superiority of divine fulfillment versus natural fulfillment, but also to make the point that, in light of His design for us, anything short of life in Him is not to be considered life at all. Life for man, who was created in the very image of God, is inseparable from the soul-level nourishment we receive in intimate relationship with Him. In other words, you cannot call yourself living in God’s eyes simply because you have a pulse, breath in your lungs, and food in your belly. We come alive by feeding ourselves on Christ.

God commands His people in scripture to offer a sacrifice of praise to Him (Heb. 13:15). Psalm 33:1 reads, “Sing joyfully to the Lord, you righteous; it is fitting for the upright to praise Him.” And again in Psalm 147:1, “Praise the Lord. How good it is to sing praises to our God, how pleasant and fitting to praise Him!” Many people seem stupefied by this command and respond by offering among their highest praises, “Thank you, Lord, that I have a beating heart and breath in my lungs.” They might even go so far as to add, “If I receive nothing else from you, this is enough.”

Is there not something awry about this tendency of ours, first of all, to grasp at the most elemental scraps of our existence as God’s highest gifts and, secondly, to place such importance on the sustenance of our bodily existence? “Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?” (Matt. 6:25) This question must have sounded awfully strange when Jesus posed it to the crowds gathered round Him on the mount. I would bet that at least a handful of them thought to themselves, “Wait a second, what could be more important to life than food?” But Jesus was so absorbed in the reality of His teachings (that is, that true life is the life found in Him) that the question poured out without the slightest hesitation.

John Piper writes in his book, Desiring God, “If [God] withholds himself from our contemplation and companionship, no matter what else he gives us, he is not loving (Desiring God, pg. 48).” Life, then, if we can consider it within its appropriate context, should not even be considered a blessing at all if we are otherwise withheld from enjoying God directly. To assert that the “blessings” of a beating heart and breath in our lungs were sufficient provisions from our Savior is to inadvertently advocate Hell itself as a suitable existence for God’s redeemed: for what is Hell but an eternal existence separated from God? Consider Queen Orual’s experience in Lewis’ Till We Have Faces:

“I did and I did and I did - and what does it matter what I did? I cared for all these things only as a man cares for a hunt or a game, which fills the mind and seems of some moment while it lasts, but then the beast’s killed or the king’s mated, and now who cares? It was so with me almost every evening of my life; one little stairway led me from feast or council, all the bustle and skill and glory of queenship, to my own chamber to be alone with myself - that is, with a nothingness. Going to bed and waking in the morning (I woke, most often, too early) were bad times - so many hundreds of evenings and mornings. Sometimes I wondered who or what sends us this senseless repetition of days and nights and seasons and years; is it not like hearing a stupid boy whistle the same tune over and over, till you wonder how he can bear it himself?” (Till We Have Faces, pg. 236)

Know then that life, in the mere sense of our sustained mortality, is no gift in itself. It is as the fictional devil, Screwtape puts it, “…simply an occasion which we and the Enemy [God] are both trying to exploit. Like most other things which humans are excited about, such as health and sickness, age and youth, or war and peace, it is, from the point of view of the spiritual life, mainly raw material (The Screwtape Letters, pg. 102-103).” So, if the sustenance of our bodily existence is not in itself praiseworthy, what is? What above our bodily health is the most important quality of life? In pointing us away from the physical, Jesus naturally directs our thoughts toward the nourishment of our souls. According to His assessment, true life begins when we are satisfied, not merely bodily, but within our very souls. And we recall from the opening passage that our souls are nourished by feeding on Christ Himself.

“Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.” (Is. 55:2)

It might be pertinent at this time to clarify what is meant by life in the salvific sense versus life in the mortal sense. Christ says “unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life in you.” But we have already determined that this does not mean that our mortal existence will cease if we do not feed on Him. So what part of us does die? I think in the general sense, it is our spirits that die (and I’m not sure in what way the spirit is separate from the soul). In the practical, or applicatory, sense, it is our faith that dies when we are no longer nourished in communion with God. It is absurd to think that the branch can survive when separated from the vine (John 15), or that our faith of which God is the author and perfector (Heb. 12:2) can be sustained apart from His abiding presence. As we have already established, our position before God must always be patient to agent. He is the source.

II. The Contradiction

As a preamble to this post, I asked everyone to read the Time magazine article featuring Mother Teresa’s “crisis if faith”. It occurred to me that not everyone who read that article may have been able to extract the significant points of her experiences as it relates to this discussion. Therefore, let me cite, side by side, the two sets of “data” from which my “problem” arises:

1. Our faith is sustained by being nourished on Christ - As John Piper writes, ““If [God] withholds himself from our contemplation and companionship, no matter what else he gives us, he is not loving.” (Desiring God, pg. 48)

2. Christ, at times, seems to withhold Himself from us - Hear Mother Teresa’s complaint upon receiving an important prize in the Philippines: “This means nothing to me, because I don’t have Him.”

According to the article in Time magazine, Mother Teresa endured a half-century feeling as though God were absent from her life. It was reported that “with her confessors, she developed a kind of shorthand of pain, referring almost casually to ’my darkness’ and to Jesus as ’the Absent One.’ In a transcribed prayer she writes, “When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven - there is such convicting emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives and hurt my very soul.- I am told God loves me - and yet the reality of darkness and coldness and emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul.” She wrote elsewhere in a letter to Archbishop Ferdinand Perier, “Please pray specifically for me that I may not spoil His work and that Our Lord may show Himself - for there is such terrible darkness in me, as if everything was dead. It has been like this more or less from the time I started ‘the work.’”

Again, Piper writes, “God’s quest to be glorified and our quest to be satisfied reach their goal in this one experience: our delight in God which overflows in praise.” (Desiring God, pg. 53) Might God have other purposes which necessitate His withdrawal from our lives? The life of Mother Teresa, and testimonies like hers, portray a picture of faith in which that single necessary element is denied it (Luke 10:41-42). As tempted as I am to dismiss the implicit doctrine of the second “datum” by a fundamental adherence to the first, I just can’t. The plaintiffs are too many, and frankly, too credible. I believe that C.S. Lewis used the fictional Orual to vicariously carry his own complaints before God. You can hardly read his book without getting that impression. The clarity with which he describes the suffering at the hands of the gods, and the specificity of the language he uses are too incriminating. Then I have myself to reference, and I certainly can’t renounce my own testimony.

Piper quotes George Mueller: “…now, since God has taught me this point, it is as plain to me as anything, that the first thing the child has to do morning by morning is to obtain food for his inner man…food for my own soul is the object of my meditation.” (Desiring God, pg. 134 and 133) Again, the centrality of being nourished on God is emphasized. One might reasonably ask, how does one’s soul “feed” on God? How does one recognize that they are living in nurturing communion with God? C.S. Lewis’ contemplations on prayer give us a starting point in answering this question:

“…for our spiritual life as a whole, the ‘being taken into account,’ or ‘considered,’ matters more than [our petitions] being granted…We can bear to be refused but not to be ignored. In other words, our faith can survive many refusals if they really are refusals and not mere disregards. The apparent stone will be bread to us if we believe that a Father’s hand put it into ours, in mercy or in justice or even in rebuke. It is hard and bitter, yet it can be chewed and swallowed. But if, having prayed for our heart’s desire and got it, we then became convinced that this was a mere accident - that providential designs which had only some quite different end just couldn’t help throwing out this satisfaction for us as a by-product - then the apparent bread would become a stone. A pretty stone, perhaps, or even a precious stone. But not edible to the soul.” (Letters to Malcolm, pg. 52-53)

A soul fed on God feels alive and there are fruits in accordance with that life. “Out of the overflow of the heart…” is a common phrase in scripture (Luke 6:45). If we are filled on the heart level with God, we should expect such fruit as love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control (Gal. 5:22-23) to result. Note that this list speaks of internal conditions rather than external acts. Keep this in mind when you read the following passage from Till We Have Faces.

“It was as if I were dead already, but not as the god, or Socrates, bade me die. Yet all the time I was able to go about my work, doing and saying whatever was needful, and no one knew that there was anything amiss. Indeed, the dooms I gave, sitting on my judgment seat, about this time, were though to be even wiser and more just than before; it was work on which I spent much pains and I know I did it well. But the prisoners and plaintiffs and witnesses and the rest seemed now to me more like shadows than real men. I did not care a straw (though I still labored to discern) who had a right to the little field or who had stolen the cheese.” (Till We Have Faces, pg. 236, 285)

When we cease to receive the soul-level nourishment of communion with God, we experience a spiritual death while our physical existences continue almost uninterrupted. Often this change, as Orual noted, goes completely unnoticed by those around us. We begin to feel hollow, more like ghosts than living beings, moving through this existence as if we were still part of it, when in reality, we have no real participation in it. As Orual recounts, the plaintiffs and witnesses no longer seemed like men to her, but mere shadows. Everything that moves around us remains external, and we no longer receive nourishment into our souls.

All these descriptions are echoed almost exactly by Mother Teresa in the biography, Come Be My Light. And these also were the words I found being laid down in my journal night after night as I began to focus my attention directly on Him. I can’t help but wonder if it is in fact the natural result of attending so directly to God’s presence. I asked before if intimacy with God was something you could only allude to, or if His presence can only be experienced through some peripheral approach. The doctrine I’ve discussed here - that of being nourished by our direct communion with God - is yet another route through which this question naturally arises. The Bible teaches that this communion is essential to the life He’s called us, and yet not everyone who seeks Him finds nourishment in Him. Often it is quite the contrary, and our intense longing for His immediacy in our lives becomes nothing but a source of death, keeping our souls starved even of worldly pleasures.

To first seek communion with God is to leave the shore of everything the world offers (Heb 11:15-16, 24-27)…we brave the vast and featureless ocean in pure hope that the land which awaits us will be infinitely better (ibid., Rom. 8:18). Every decision against the world in hope of God’s promise makes our trust in Him that much more severe, that much more costly if we are wrong. But as we float here alone, seeing neither the land we left behind nor that which we are striving to reach, a depth of sobriety which we may have never before experienced inevitably sets in. This is the moment you cease to be satisfied with mere allusions to the prospective reality. All peripheral things drop away, become utterly insufficient, and your soul cries out for the reality itself. And within Christianity we are taught that access to the reality is not only readily available but principal to our faith experience. If this is so, why the apparent contradiction?

The Divine Dialogue: Part 2 (Originally posted June 2008)

I. Sight and Knowledge

In our discussion on faith, we talked about the intellect as a faculty used in discerning spiritual truths. Plato likens this particular application of our intellect (which he calls knowledge) to another of our faculties, sight. He writes that the philosopher “will often turn their eyes upward and downward…they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human copy; and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive in according to that other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God (The Republic, pg. 210).” This faculty of knowledge, or “vision” of the absolute, is what men apply both in acts of subjection to God as well as discernment of His movements. In other words, the same faculty of vision can be directed both at those objects on which the light shines as well as source itself - the one to perceive what God has made known of His movements (his emanations), the other to scrutinize His Absolute nature. As Plato writes, “…the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is recognized by sight (The Republic, pg. 218).”

If this allegorical comparison of knowledge and sight can be taken as far and applied as directly as Plato seems to believe, what insight might it offer in regards to our ability to discern God’s movements? For one, in understanding our faculty of knowledge as a sensory organ only - that it only serves us in perceiving the light, not in producing it - then we understand also our proper position before God in the realm of revelation. We recognize that we are not the source of the light, but that the light shines upon that which it pleases; and our capacity to utilize any information that the light might make available goes only so far as the source’s willingness to make it known. To clarify this point, let’s return to the allegory:

“Why, you know…that the eyes, when a person directs them toward objects on which the light of day is no longer shining, but the moon and stars only, see dimly, and are nearly blind; they seem to have no clearness of vision in them…but when they are directed toward objects on which the sun shines, they see clearly and there is sight in them…And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which truth and being shine, the soul perceives and understands, and is radiant with intelligence; but when turned toward the twilight of becoming and perishing, then she has opinion only, and goes blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then of another, and seems to have no intelligence.” (The Republic, pg. 219)

Does that last line not capture perfectly the prevailing condition of Christians today in their attempt to discern God’s movements? I asked at the end of one my previous posts something to the effect of, “Why are Christians continually missing it!?” Why do those who have received the very source of light itself seem like all others to be “sheep without a shepherd” (Matt. 9:36) or “blind leading the blind (Matt. 15:14)”? If this allegory is trustworthy, we might suspect that our position before God might have something to do with it. Perhaps we appear to be blind to God’s movements because we are not looking where the light is shining. Instead we stare off into the dark, straining our spiritual eyes in vain hope of gleaning knowledge where none can be had. We rightly call this experience futile, though I think we’ve missed the inherent lesson.

When believers experience futility in their pursuit of God’s will, I believe one potential answer is the misapplication of our senses. We assume a role which was never intended for us, and God has rightly made operation from this position futile. Consider God’s warning through the prophet, Isaiah:

“Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the word of his servant? Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God. But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and of the torches you have set ablaze. This is what you shall receive from my hand: You will lie down in torment.” (Is. 50:10-11)

In this verse, God lays the options before us. He pleads with us to submit and to maintain our hope in God’s revelatory power to guide our paths and to grow our knowledge of Him, and yet concedes that there is another choice: “But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and of the torches you have set ablaze.” (see also John 11:1-44) It is the plea and reluctant concession that God has been making since the beginning of time…

Justin tells me that a dominant theme throughout the Pentateuch is the distinction between God’s knowledge of what is “good” (as emphasized throughout the creation story) and man’s personal judgment of what is good. This is exemplified in the following passage from Deuteronomy.

“See, I set before you today life and prosperity, death and destruction. For I command you today to love the Lord your God, to walk in His ways, and to keep His commands, decrees and laws; then you will live and increase, and the Lord your God will bless you in the land you are entering to possess. But if your heart turns away and you are not obedient, and if you are drawn away to bow down to other gods and worship them, I declare to you this day that you will certainly be destroyed. You will not live long in the land you are crossing the Jordan to enter and possess. This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him. For the Lord is your life, and He will give you many years in the land He swore to give to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” (Deut. 30:15-20)

John Sailhamer comments on this passage in his book, Pentateuch as Narrative: “The inference of God's commands in vv. 16-17 is that God alone knows what is good (tov) for man and that God alone knows what is not good (ra`) for him. To enjoy the ‘good’ man must trust God and obey him. If man disobeys, he will have to decide for himself what is good (tov) and what is not good (ra`). While to modern man such a prospect may seem desirable, to the author of Genesis it is the worst fate that could have befallen him. Only God knows what is good (tov) for man. Only God can know what is good.”

Though much of the effect of this comparison may have been lost to modernity, we’ve invested enough time reviving the concept that we should have no problem recognizing the implications (if it is less than obvious here, consult back to Isaiah 50:11). The above commentary calls attention to that often subtle shift between operation within God’s will and operation by man’s will, and places it back into its proper context - that context which was all too obvious to the author of Genesis (it is the “worst fate that could have befallen him”) but which seems almost favorable to us today. Are our principles that allow us to live largely independent of God not even considered by today’s standards advantageous to our condition? We rejoice in those proactive solutions and give our praise to those who discover them. The more tools we have at our disposal, the more little triangles floating around in our “Magic 8 ball” God, the better off we consider ourselves. But even though we might often find this to be the path of least resistance, living by the light of our own lamps is not God’s design for us, and consequently, can never achieve for us true fulfillment.

Though this first section of text claims for ourselves a large part of the responsibility for experiencing futility in our pursuit of God, I am not suggesting that this is the only explanation for it. Sometimes, as in the case we just discussed, God uses our experiences in relationship with Him to act as an iconoclast, replacing false beliefs concerning Him with realities of His nature; however, there are other times that we must hold on to our conviction of God’s nature despite our experiences with Him (see Matt. 15:22-28). I tend to believe that in such instances as this, God has taken the extra precaution of making His prior intentions known to us, most often by communicating those aspects of His nature which the particular trial might call into question explicit in His word. But then, after He has once prepared us for it, he allows the trials to come and we are tested.

II. Night of the Soul

“Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? A man who walks by day will not stumble, for he sees by this world's light. It is when he walks by night that he stumbles, for he has no light.’” (John 11:9-10)

To be walking and suddenly find ourselves surrounded by darkness, in the literal sense, comes as no surprise to us. We properly understand this existence to be comprised of both night and day, periods of darkness as well as light. But needless to say, we are much more poorly-adapted to discerning the days and nights of the soul. Consequently, when we suddenly find ourselves surrounded by what appears to us endless spiritual darkness we become utterly disoriented, stumbling and “blinking about”, until it seems that the darkness has swallowed the very source of light itself. We begin to ponder things reminiscent of Lewis’ ponderings, “There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once…” (A Grief Observed, pg. 6) This sentiment is echoed also by the psalmist: “Will the Lord reject forever? Will He never show His favor again? Has His unfailing love vanished forever? Has His promise failed for all time (Ps. 77:7-8)?”

The severity of such an experience can range from slightly troubling to nearly unbearable when it happens to coincide with a period of unique desperation for God’s presence. When the two situations do happen to coincide, I believe there is a great potential for spiritual and emotional wounds to develop if they are not ever understood in their proper context. And coming to such an understanding is no small task, as we are sure to find out. But first, let me touch on one more instance in which man might rightly bear the responsibility for experiencing such a feeling of God’s absence.

More than likely, the majority of our experiences with feelings of God’s absence are a result of our own misapplied reliance upon created things. Again, we have disrupted the delicate positioning of man before God, this time placing an idol in God’s position and investing in it the same depth of trust and expectation that is appropriate for Him alone. As Hebrews 12:26-29 indicates, when God leads us through a trial and our foundation is tested for what it is, the feeling comes to us like the world crumbling beneath our feet or, curiously, like abandonment.

“At that time His voice shook the earth, but now He has promised, ‘Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.’ The words ‘once more’ indicate the removing of what can be shaken - that is, created things - so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our ‘God is a consuming fire.’”

The loss of our hopes and dreams and the pain of having our expectations fail us is hurtful in whatever form it comes (Prov. 13:12). The advantage to losing our hopes to such an experience as I have just described, however, is that the reality that replaces them is infinitely more faithful. We replace that which crumbles under pressure for something “unshakeable”. We trade a fantasy for a “sure hope” (Heb. 6:11). But what hope is left for us if, once having traded all the “fantasies” for the only reality, that reality comes also to fail us?

In the poem, Footprints, we are told of a man who, in a vision, walks along a beach with the Lord as images of his life are projected across the sky. For each scene of his life he sees two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonging to him and the other to the Lord. As those lowest and saddest moments of his life project across the sky, the man notices that there remains only one set of footprints in the sand where there were previously two. It unsettled him that God might have abandoned him during those moments in which he was most desperate for His presence, and proceeds to question the Lord about what He sees. The Lord is said to have responded, “My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” (http://www.llerrah.com/footprints.htm).

It is a comforting notion that during all those most desperate times in our lives God does not allow us to walk alone, but rather carries us through them in His arms. It is comforting, I said, but is it true? In certain rare instance, perhaps it is (see Is. 63:9). But the thought that God might carry us through life’s trials seems awfully contradictory to the purpose He explicitly assigns to them in scripture: “Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna…to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord…Know then in your heart that as a man disciplines his son, so the Lord your God disciplines you.” (Deut. 8:2-3, 5)

God may have many reasons for leading us into trials - to discipline us, perhaps, or develop our character - but to lead us into a tribulation only to bear it Himself is to suggest that God might preserve us from the very thing He intended for our good (Heb. 12:5-6). The poem, Footprints, portrays a very comforting, but very narrow, view of suffering. It suggests frivolity in God’s work, lack of resolve to accomplish His purpose in us, and all around shortsightedness. These scriptures provide a more accurate portrait of God’s work in trials:

“God is mighty, but does not despise men; He is mighty, and firm in His purpose.” (Job 36:5)

“Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.” (Lam. 3:32-33)

“Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (Is. 30:20-21)

God certainly allows man to suffer, and certainly we can trust Him not to make light of our pain. Instead, He promises to let the trial complete its work in us (James 1:4; Phil. 1:6), that once we have suffered, we might rightly claim for ourselves an incomparable salvation (1 Peter 1:3-9; Rom. 8:18). It is in this context that man finds Jesus, “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering” (Is. 53:3), to be a truly sufficient Savior. “In bringing many sons to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the author of their salvation perfect through suffering. Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Heb. 2:10-11)

This, then, is the Biblical stance on suffering and no other may be admitted. It is real, it is hard, and it is worth it. So, with these eyes I want to look determinedly upon that experience that in its more dilute form we simply call a “night”, but when served pure is nearly unbearable. I’m going to present this latter class of experiences in the more familiar context of the problem of pain, because for me, the two are inseparable. As C.S. Lewis reminds us in his book on the subject, “…pain would be no problem unless, side by side with our daily experience of this painful world, we had received what we think a good assurance that ultimate reality is righteous and loving.” (The Problem of Pain, pg. 14)

[Other recommended readings include Plato’s Republic, Books 5-7; Peter Kreeft, Heaven: Our Heart‘s Deepest Longing; Is. 54; Is. 57:10-11, 16-19; Is. 50; Jer. 31:15-22; Lam. 3; Is. 45; Ps. 143; Ps. 13; Ps. 73; Ps. 77; Ps. 25:4-5; Ps. 30:5; Ps. 27:13-14; Job 19:25-27; John 11:1-44]