Loving Punching

I've done a fair bit of Bible-beating in my time. I'm sure this is shocking, but I took on high school teachers, friends, college classmates, co-workers, pagans, Christians (I use that term very loosely), college professors, etc. Most friends groaned when they learned I was taking a "Structure of Argument" class in college. One co-worker told me he hated me and would never speak to me again, which held true for the three or four months I remained at that job.

I have often prided myself in a pugnacious defense of my beliefs, but I must admit I have rarely fought with righteousness AND love. I more often volleyed off some witty sarcasm or scathing reply with an interest towards my own intelligence and understanding instead of a humble and passionate concern for that individual's soul. That realization has made me wary of discord - or perhaps it has made me more discerning of pigs and pearls, but regardless, I find myself fluctuating between irrate pitbull and human doormat.

And so, I absoltuely loved the conclusion of Piper's Contending for Our All, the fourth book in his Swans Are Not Silent series. In the book he discusses Athanasius (seriously cool old guy), Jon Owen, and J. Gresham Machen (fascinating if you've studied modernism), but he pulls them together with some quoting from Francis Schaeffer, one of my favorite people. I love the way Schaeffer views controversy, especially among Christians:

Before a watching world, an observable love in the midst of difference will show a difference between Christians' differences and other people's differences...when everything is going well and we are standing around in a nice little circle, there is not much to be seen by the world. But when we come to the place where there is real difference, and we exhibit uncompromised principles but at the same time observable love, then there is something that the world can see.

Schaeffer called controversy among Christians "our golden opportunity." Much like our God-given ability to respond to trials and suffering with rejoicing, a mark of our love of Christ is not bullying others nor holding hands and humming. Instead, we must tear down every human institution and folly that is contrary to God - *but our tearing down must look different than the world's.* Our debates shouldn't look like pagan debates. Our refuting should not be snide, proud, or boastful. True unity flows from truth (James 3:17) - unity is not achieved by displacing truth. Accordingly, may we fight in a shockingly different way from the world. I pray that I will learn to throw hard, solid, pure, loving punches. I pray we will achieve that balance so difficult to find in this present darkness, because it's growing darker, and we need some valiant soldiers.

Adoption Musings

I'm slowly reading through a book called Adopted For Life by Russell Moore. It's pretty good, and that paired with Chuck and Teresa Weinberg's recent visit to Ethiopia has put adoption more and more on my heart.

Most people know that I was adopted at birth, though some are surprised because I 'fit' so well into my family. I have amazing parents - most kids take that for granted, but when you're adopted, it hits particularly hard that, though it's true of all of us, you could have ended up with anyone. My birth mother was sixteen, and her parents wanted her to keep me and they planned to help raise me. She, however, wanted her child to have a stable family with a father and mother. I have no real desire to meet either of my birth parents (perhaps I will post more on that later), but I wish I could send one letter to her thanking her for her courage and sacrifice.

One important point that Moore makes early in his book that I wanted to pass along here is this: I beg you to never ever ask an adopted person who his or her real parents are. You mean biological parents - how does their one-night fling make them "real" parents? Without realizing it you're falling into so many contemporary Western ideas of family and children that are SO WRONG. I can't tell you how many conversations I've had along these lines:

"Wow, you're adopted? Have you ever met your real parents?"
"No, I have never met my biological parents."
"But, don't you want to know who your real parents are?"
(When I am in a particularly good mood):
"No, I have no desire to meet my random DNA providers. However, my REAL parents are right here if you would like to talk to them."

Asking someone about their "real" (i.e. biological) parents is like asking a Christian, "so, what about Satan? Don't you want to meet him?" Just like we are fully adopted in Christ and no longer slaves to unrighteousness or a child of the Devil, so when you adopt a child that child is totally yours. Not extended babysitting. Not an extra cousin. It's instant, like your entrance into the family of the High King upon your conversion and salvation.

I think people are naturally fascinated with adoption (it is amazing!), but be careful with your curiosity. People feel open asking adopted kids and parents the most intimate things they wouldn't ask "normal" families. Please show grace, and never ever ever ever ask someone about their real parents, unless you're talking about their real parents - you know, the ones that have raised, clothed, disciplined, instructed, encouraged, housed, and fed them.

Puddleglum is My Hero

Existentialism bores me, and relativism is so lame. I discovered early in high school that the good and evil question got every one, every time. Let them preach about culturally determined standards or Freudian fear of punishment, but whenever I asked them if it was right or wrong for me to shoot their girlfriend of boyfriend in the head for no reason, they always said it was wrong. Why? Because it is. Typically the conversation shut down at this point, as they had no answer and I was smug. The true existentialist or relativist (I've only met one, and he wears a cape), probably wouldn't care, but I wonder what he or she would say if the gun were pointing at them?

Anyway, here is an excellent quote from Nate Wilson that just makes me smile (it's so much better if you know who Puddleglum is):

If there is such a thing as beautiful, a such a thing as good, or even such a thing as bad, then there is a transcendent standard that determines which is which. An atheist can say that society prefers mothers to murderers, but he cannot say that is as it should be. Tell us what is...but without God, you cannot tell us what ought to be.

If the world really is accidental and devoid of meaning, and you and I have no more value in the cosmos than your average bread mold, and Beauty and Goodness are artificial constructs imagined within an explosion, constructs that are controlled by chemical reactions within the accident and have no necessary correspondence to reality, then my made-up children's world licks your real world silly. Depart from me. Go drown in your seething accident. Puddleglum and I are staying here.

Lewis' The Silver Chair (where we first meet Puddleglum: one of the greatest literary characters ever) is all about reality: What is real? How do you determine it? I'm thrilled to be a part of a planned, glorious story full of snowflakes, autumn leaves, baby snot, and a sense of touch. The story could have been written any way, and your story could have been anything, but aren't you happy for absolutes and an absolutely good Author?

Quarky Matters

I don't understand anti-matter. It could be my very right-sided brain is entirely incapable, like it can't wrap itself around how light and water make acorn squash or pelicans get off the ground. But, in a rare appearance of solid logic, I don't understand anti-matter because the word is an oxymoron. Matter is substance - you cannot not have substance and then say it exists. Doesn't everything that exists have matter, except perhaps God? Aren't we into some laws of thermodynamics (which include things like whatever line you get in at the supermarket will promptly become the slowest moving).

So, I fight against anti-matter, though I have no comprehension of the theory and am simply annoyed with it on a linguistic level. But as I was reading N.D. Wilson's Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl (wonderfully random grit), his answer to the question "what is the world made of?" rocked my tilt-a-whirl. He goes into a discussion of quarks, elements, and anti-turtles, but at the end states this:

"Words, magic words. Word spoken by the Infinite, words so potent, spoken by One so potent that they have weight and mass and flavor. They are real...In the Christian story, the world came into existence at the point of speech, and that speech was ex nihilo, from nothing.

My quarks are standing because they're obedient. They've been told to by a Voice they can't disobey"

The World is ultimately made of words spoken by a creative, joyous, awesome, infinite Creator. Beyond the periodic table, fire, air, water, atoms, molecules, electrons, quarks, and even anti-matter, are God's words. My body is not held together by a balance between electronic charges but by God's words. That is just so cool.

Charred Mutton

We live in a world of knee-jerks and pendulum swings. History is defined by it - in response to the harsh, logical rationalism of the Enlightenment (or, as my Father taught me to call it, the Endarkenment) arose Romanticism, a philosophy of emotion, the sublime, and natural beauty. Monarchy didn't work, so we tried democracy. That didn't work, so we tried socialism. The list goes on.

We all knee-jerk against things, and the Church is no exception. I fear our Reformed community, in its proper emphasis on truth, doctrine, and teaching, and its hatred of the dark, frivilous, and evil entertainments that have seeped into the Evangelical world, have knee-jerked incorrectly against the arts. We distrust beauty, trappings, and decorations, which is fair, but in that have we stripped God's mighty, eternal story of its beauty?

A good friend has encouraged me to read Credenda Agenda for about five years now, and I finally have. I appreciate the Wilsons' balanced approach to aesthetics and truth, for as Doug Wilson puts it in speaking of C.S. Lewis, "more beauty in wordsmithing does not lessen the amount of truth that words carry, but rather increases it drastically...a pearl necklace on a beautiful woman is not extraneous."

I agree with Wilson that I would rather read The Chronicles of Narnia than a dry book on orthodoxy, though I also understand my husband's point that the Chronicles are only as powerful as the truth they convey, and that truth is contained in Scripture and expounded upon within said dusty books.

It is all a balance, but I fear we lose some of the awesome, imaginative, mythic scope of God and His creation when we, as Nate Wilson puts it in the same issue, "take reality and put it in a large pot, boil all the meat off, and then burn the bones. We then hold up the charred remains of a skeleton for the world to see and believe in." He goes on to point out Lewis put meat on those bones and heartily enjoyed the roast. He gave form to truth - the Chronicles of Narnia do not discuss the facets of the resurrection, they show it. We do not get a lengthy discussion of the balance between Freedom and Sovereignty, but we watch and peacefully understand two mind-bending truths as Jill faces Aslan across the stream. It is part of Lewis' power: as Nate also says, "C.S. Lewis built on his [foundations]. We have our hatchet from behind the lectern, arguing cogently that it is sharper than our opponent's. Lewis crosses the stage and lops a head or two."

May we be a people who love our truth well roasted and seasoned and enjoy the imaginative capacity God has given us while rooting it in His ultimate truth. May we use our foundations effectively, not just talking about them but living them and fighting with them. As Doug Wilson ends his article, "a man who is called to the use of words, as ministers are, and who ignores the aethetic aspect of them in order to concentrate on 'truth,' is actually at war with the truth."

Theology Question (II)

With Wedding season upon us (I think we are at five for the year, with a few more possibly on the way), I've been thinking about ceremonies, love, and lasting relationships. It prompted this question:

You often hear in evangelical circles, songs, and conversations that we need to recapture the fire of our 'first love' for Christ. We are admonished to try and reclaim the passion and excitement we first had when newly saved.

It's like believing couples should always remain in the honeymoon stage, driven by thrills, exhilaration, newness, and emotionalism.

But isn't that wrong? There is certainly a place for freshness and fire in any relationship at any time, but isn't our desire for deeper, more mature, more solid, more stable love? Shouldn't the same be true for our love of God? Instead of 'lighting the fire in my soul again,' shouldn't we pray for and seek a love like the best aged wine, with fullness and solidity - that isn't swayed by every whim of feeling, but holds a firm and straight course?

Pressing Theology Question (the First)

A few theology monkeys have been swinging about while I deep-cleaned our carpets today. What do you all think?

Situation:
A young lady desires to be married and have a family, but God has not brought along the right man yet.

Does that mean God will *either* bring a wonderful man along at some point in the future or change her heart towards singleness -

OR

Is it possible the young women can/would desire to be married her entire life, yet never marry?

I have always believed that God gives us sweet gifts and the desires of our heart, or He changes those desires according to His will. Would a woman (or man) long for marriage, while praying and serving and giving that longing to the Lord, his or her entire life and yet not get married?