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.