fides apprehension

Every time I see a prominent Christian figure interviewed in the media I cringe, because every time, without fail, it is the same questions: Will the Muslim be in heaven? Will the Jew be saved? Will this sin or that be pardoned? Will the atheist, apathetic, or abortionist be shown grace?

But it is not the question of which I am afraid. Rather, I’m afraid that Steven Superpastor might attempt an answer. Nothing unnerves me more at these moments than the isolated scriptural reference; a sort of half-court chuck, thrown up, over, and far beyond the proverbial backboard in a premature panic, shattering a distant second-floor window and knocking unconscious some unassuming kid in his room wrestling with his brother. “Well Larry... Jesus said...and you just can’t argue with that, so I think he’s made it pretty clear.”

But what business do we have hypothesizing about the judgments of God? And what kind of person wants ever to rationalize the damnation of another human being? It is a sick business. Who are we to measure, assess, or assume the limit of God’s grace and forgiveness?



In the 23rd Psalm, as in all the Psalms, David reflects on his walk through the whole of life: through the good green pastures, from the monotony of still waters, to the deep depths of despair in what he calls “the valley of the shadow of death”. Amidst it all, he seems to sense God’s leading him, upholding him, restoring, and preparing a way for him. It’s a popular excerpt, probably one of the most comforting quotations lifted from the Bible today. It’s calming. David says that the Lord, “restores his soul”. What a wonderful thought. But interesting, just one Psalm prior, we have almost the opposite. There we find an intense lament from the writer. There he’s distressed, screaming out to God--whom he believed abandoned him--without answer. It’s deeply disconcerting. But a moment later, just down the page in the 23rd Psalm, there is this mysterious sense of relief, of safety in the presence of God. What a huge leap.

Most translations close the Psalm with these familiar words, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” But maybe the translators tamed this one down a bit for us. The verb being translated “follow” is the Hebrew word radaf which literally means to aggressively hunt down, take captive, or harass. Radaf was most often used in characterizing hostile actions done by one’s enemies. So it is interesting that David would use radaf in this context. We might expect an antagonist, a militant enemy, intending to radaf us to the death. The last thing we should expect would be goodness and mercy here--and certainly not God himself.

How ironic, the Psalmist's picture of God’s aggressive, excessive, unduly love for us. He persecutes us with his love, his goodness and mercy hunt down and subdue us, disproportionately, to some degree even inappropriately, for we cannot compete with or equally reciprocate his affection for us. Our love for God is therefore itself responsive, it is reactive in nature, not evidence of any earned worth, worthiness, or spiritual superiority. certainly it is not provocation for our salvation. The gospel of John puts like this, “We have the power of loving, because he first had love for us." Paul puts up a point after adding, "It is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ. He anointed us, set his seal of ownership on us, and put his Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come."

We do not pursue God. We are incapable. In the letter to the Philippians, the writer instructs his readers to, “work out [their] salvation with fear and trembling.” Why? Because, “...it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure.” This notion that I act out salvation in isolation, that I initiate this thing by myself,--to the degree to which it saves me--could not be further from grace. For we are ourselves pursued, sought, and afflicted by a terrible and weighty love. The totality of such a thing is distressing, perhaps more frightening than anything imaginable.


What could be more false than measuring infinite love? What could be more degrading to our own knowledge of God than to imagine the forgiveness, grace or mercy of the immeasurable one to be completely understood or attained by our own efforts? Do we imagine ourselves as ascending toward the divine? How foolish our professions. True faith can never be limitative. It can not be measured by harmony or accordance with what are merely rational human orderings of that which is divinely inordinate.

The Christian's hope should be that God's grace might be big enough for all people, his payment sufficient for eradicating all our outstanding debts. If the Christian should err in his assumptions, may he err in a grace that wishes to be too generous, too hopeful, too convinced that this God who loved the world, indeed loves it in entirety.


May his goodness and kindness hunt you down, subdue, harass and take you captive. And may we all surrender to his love.

honestly

What are we proving?


A couple of years ago I met a guy who’d undergone a massive life transformation. Now understand that sometimes people talk about change in pennies--a better attitude, a new home, hair color, or job--but this guy’s change was massive. His was severe. From a life of drug selling, dealing and using; from a life of rich material emptiness and short-lived pleasures, he’d become utterly exhausted. Desperate. I remember standing in an empty parking lot with him late at night, hearing parts of his story for the first time and being overcome with the notion that something miraculous, something mysterious, had taken over him. Somewhere, something intangible, had broken through in his life. Just a couple of months earlier he had been gripped by a reality that he had no choice but to embrace. He spoke of surprise, joy and disbelief, new thought patterns, desires, habits, and hope. As evidence of his new life, he wore this ridiculous, unassuming, sometimes inappropriate smile everywhere. Seriously, his gratefulness was strange. But it was genuine. He told me about the years of tears and mysterious yearnings, replaced by a mental calm, and a freedom from the disturbances of his previous life that he could not logically explain.

If you’ve met someone like this, you know there is little to be argued or proven. If you’ve been on the listening end of the conversation you can only agree. The force behind this kind of work must be good. This kind of God can be trusted. No one knew how or when and it may have taken what felt like forever, but after waiting finally somewhere, somehow, God...

These stories are powerful accounts of the divine. They are not founded on theological theory, supported by constructive argumentative approaches, or credited as the result of pious praxis. In these accounts there are no steps to be cited, no reasons wholly understood, and there is no discernible sequence of movements to be generalized or applied. Despite the widespread matriculation of materials that lay claim to the motivation behind God’s movement, no one understands him. God may be good, sure, but he is still other.

Jesus articulated this mysterious God through stories and metaphor. He said the kingdom of God is like: a seed growing in the ground that becomes a tree so that the birds can perch in its branches, a net let down into a lake to catch fish, a treasure hidden, found, and buried again in a field, or one expensive pearl. What was that? Say that again, Jesus. It's a seed, a net, buried treasure, a pearl.

Is this how you answer questions about your faith?

The Bible tells us that God’s Spirit descends like a dove. Nice. In one story, this character Nicodemus wants to know the anatomy behind rebirth and how it's done. The question being asked is, "What does it take?" Nicodemus wants it straight and simple. So Jesus breaks it down for him and tells him that the Spirit, like the wind, blows where it wants to. We hear it but don’t know where it comes from or where it's going. No, no--maybe you misunderstood the question, Jesus. How does God work? Jesus says the Spirit is a lot like the wind. Were Jesus a politician, he might be accused of dodging the question. But he doesn’t. Rather, he seems to be suggesting that, in fact, God is best understood in this very quality of secrecy; this puzzling, hidden, mysterious nature.

It should make us wonder whether convincing or argumentative persuasion is the best way of articulating faith? Do we find readily exemplified in our Bibles any account of a person following Christ because they were out-argued, proven wrong, or debated to faith? Calling out the wrongness of competing world views or the rightness of one's own has never been been Jesus' choice. Even the early Christian community did not grow because they could prove their claims. After all, anything can be argued. Jesus wasn't the first to claim resurrection from the dead. Centuries before Christ people celebrated the supposed resurrection of Osiris, Tammuz, Attis, Mithra, and other gods--but these claims had no substance whereas Christians risked their lives on this claim. The proof, the evidence, was in a new humanity, a new way of living toward God and one another. Lives were changed. Listen to his story. Look at her life. She is a new person.

But what are we doing? What are we proving?

Talking about God has always been a tall order. It's safe to say we do a pretty poor job at it. How could we not? It is endless work. Jesus fielded questions with metaphors. The kingdom of heaven, you might think of it like gardening, fishing equipment, or stumbling across unclaimed jewelry. Jesus gives stories, not answers: the kingdom is like a wedding reception. And God? Jesus compares him to a father waiting up night after night for a runaway son.

When we articulate life with Christ as a simple transaction whereby everything is suddenly great, happy, sensible, or neat; when we purport images of painlessness, explanations for the unknown, or possession of a “whole” understanding of God-- we do a great disservice to one another. Christ left us with questions. Where did we come up with all the answers? There are unknowns. And the life of faith is one of great tension. Jesus tells us that God is good and he can be trusted, but we have to hang in there, for who knows how long.


When you talk about faith, what images do you use? Are you honest about your uncertainties?


I know someone who once told me that he only reads the Psalms. He said he reads them because they’re so comforting. But what was he talking about? The Psalms are monopolized with grief, sorrow, and uncertainty. If you read them you see the human soul laid bare. Where are you God? How long? How could you? The Christian’s life is shown there to be often desperate, angry, and exhausted. Man cries out to God, he whences in pain, he aches and groans. God is not wholly understood, but he is holy, good, and to be trusted. We should feel free to express the same, not only to God, but to one another.

What’s it like being a Christian? Honestly? It’s difficult and mysterious. It is painful, hard, sometimes drudgerous. There is great tension and waiting. But this God, he can be trusted.