Considering the healing hope of judgment day

I’ve spent some time over the years pondering the biblical notion of judgment day. As I grow older and more mature and my imagination of what such an event will involve changes, I find myself longing for a sermon I’ve never heard. It goes something like this:

We are all both victims and victimizers. We’ve done things to harm others and grieve God, and others have done unwarranted things to us that have harmed us and grieved God. When Jesus Christ returns to judge the living and the dead, as the creed says, this should be cause not just for fear and wariness over what we’ll be judged for, but also hope and relief that God will plead our cause and right the wrongs that have been done to us. He will come heal our wounds by untangling the vexing mess of how we’ve been victimized by others and perpetrated injustice ourselves. How sweet that will be. 

To affirm one piece of my fundamentalist Christian upbringing, yes, I’ll think we’ll be surprised by the gravity of what we’ve done wrong. It won’t be a pleasant experience. 

I remember a moment in therapy last year. My wife at my time and I had just separated. I had been exposed in the most deep and shameful way I’d ever experienced. She was unspeakably hurt by what I’d done—and understandably so. It was a toxic collision of hearts. We had triggered each other’s past wounds. There would be forgiveness, but not marital reconcilliation. We ended up getting divorced. 

Even in the midst of this brokenness and undoing, however, my therapist observed something profound. He said I looked relieved, as if this big, oppressive thing had somehow come out of me, as if I’d just been dragged out into the light after years of hiding in a hole. It didn’t feel like it at the time. It hurt like fucking hell. But like the dragon Eustace in Prince Caspian, who was only able to shed his scales when cut to the core by Aslan’s claws, it turned out to be the beginning of a profound seasion of growth and movement towards health. 

My own movement from this moment towards healing, however would not have been possible without what I believe is the other equally (if not more) important facet of judgment day: the naming of our own wounds and hurts inflicted by others. Seeing our sins will be shocking, but I think we’ll be even more surprised by the sweet relief of our heavenly Father and Brother tending to our wounds and binding them up. Like Matt Damon’s character in the film Good Will Hunting, I think we’ll weep in the arms of God as he whispers with a sweet, tender firmness over and over again: “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. 

It makes me sad that can’t remember ever hearing this in church. I’ve never encountered God this way until recently. I’ve never had this kind of hope and peace that all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. For most of my life I have not felt safe naming the ways that I’ve been mistreated and victimized, because I was warned so frequently that doing so was probably a way of justifing and downplaying my own sin that I alone was responsible for. 

This is a narrow truth. And a narrow truth is no truth at all. 

“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,” Jesus said to his followers. For most of my Christian life I understood this truth primarily as theological beliefs about salvation, the divinity of Christ, and so on. But I think it encompasses something much broader, deeper, and more personal and intimate. Knowing and naming the truth about ourselves is freedom. Contrary to what I’ve long believed and heard from certain church traditions, this does not begin and end with affirming our sinfulness and having faith in penal substitutionary atonement. It begins and ends with the deep bodily and heartfelt knowledge that I am loved. It continues with naming, in the safe and secure presence of another, how I’ve been wounded and hurt, the most shameful things I’ve done, and what I mostly deeply long for.

I like how Brennan Manning put it. When we arrive at the gates of heaven, he says, Jesus is only going to have one question for us: Did you believe that I loved you? If I can begin and end with that fundamental, heartfelt conviction, then by all means bring on judgment day. Come quickly Jesus, because I know your coming only ends with healing. It has to. It must. 

I find a profound biblical precedent for this at the end of the book of Revelation, where the Apostle John describes a great vision of “the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”

A river of life watering trees for the healing of the nations. The healing of the nations! We’re talking about not just individual wrongs here, but corporate, systemic wrongs that we as individuals feel so powerless against. I see here the exposure of unjust systems, the generational trauma of disenfranchisement and war and racism brought to light and healed one person at a time, one story at a time, complete with all their perplexing nuance and complexity. The macro and micro come together in this great healing crafted ever so personally by a God who reigns over multitudes yet calls each one out by name and does not let a single person go missing, as the prophet Isaiah so marvelously says. 

Interestingly, John’s revelation goes on to describe those outside the city as “everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” This is a powerful way to sum up sin. The practice of dishonesty and disingenuousness binds us—and those we’ve hurt—in our wounds, like a father who abuses his daughter and several decades later shames her for her infidelity and relational woes while touting his own stable marriage. If we are to bear the great weight of glory, we must bear the awful, healing truth about ourselves and our stories. A family, church, or society with such wounds may be able to function at a superficial level, but until those abuses are named it will not be whole. It will not be well. 

In other words, I’m starting to realize that judgment day, as best I can imagine and anticpaite it, will basically be a big, intense therapy session that comes with an epic release—tears of relief and rest and longed-for healing. In this sense I think the Catholic church might be on to something with its idea of purgatory. It seems there must be some sort of process of personal growth and healing that must be undergone as we enter fully into relationship with God. I don’t imagine it as a punitive process. But it also doesn’t seem just for one person to spend decades laboring at the emotionally painful task of healing and reconciling their story and growing into their calling, while another proceeds through life in deadened ingnorance and suddenly—boom—dies of a heart attack and without any further friction immediately knows perfect love, joy, and peace. I can’t extrapolate anything from my human experience (or the the experience of Jesus, for that matter) from which that would make sense at an emotional and embodied level.

Yes, I know what the Apostle Paul says in 1 Corinthians, that we will all be changed in “a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” That sounds instantaneous. But could it be that with the Lord one moment is as a lifetime, and a lifetime as a moment? Could it be that what we do not address and heal from in this life will be—every so tenderly and lovingly—addressed by our Father in the next? Could it be that there are no shortcuts to redemption, but that in the end we will bless God that it is so because the long, agonizing process of our healing will be the very thing that makes us strong, solid, and whole enough to bear the eternal weight of glory?

I’m still pondering these things. But I’m pondering them less with fear and more with curiosity, anticipation, and wonder. The great final healing is still a mystery, one we glimpse only dimly, as if through a mirror. Yes, I am afraid of the pain and difficulty that will come with judgment day. I feel this every time I brace myself for a difficult, conflict-filled conversation with someone. But I am also not afraid of judgment day, because I’ve tasted of the healing that’s on the other side, and I want more. 

Early reflections on life under COVID-19

With everyone retreating and self-quarantining to stem the outbreak of the novel Coronavirus, it seems the time has come for me to live more like a writer again. Here are some of my early reflections on life under COVID-19:

 

—Over the past several weeks I’ve seen well-meaing Christians post things like “God’s plan is going exactly according to plan.” 

To that I say, with all due respect, shut up. I do believe that providence is at work in the world is some mysterious, awful (in the traditional sense of the word—awe-filled) way. But people are hurting right now. They’re suffering. They’re afraid. And for good reason. People are going to die, perhaps on the scale of wartime numbers (God-forbid!). We don’t have to keep a stiff upper lip and project nice, theologically-correct statements. On the contrary, my prayers at their most desperate and sincere these days sound more like: God, where the hell are you right now? Why must we endure this?

Right now, I think that’s okay. And I’m going to keep shouting that lament for as long as I feel that way. God can take it. He won’t cast me away for it.

As I’ve sat in my room and sought the presence and voice of God over the past week, I’ve found myself returning to a great vision of the Lord holding our suffering. When my heart broke and my world fell apart last year, I learned firsthand, at an emotional, heart level, that God tends to show up in the most powerful and intimate ways amid two kinds of experiences: those of great love and of great suffering. Today the world is entering into a collective, once-in-a-generation suffering. So many things are upended. The elderly and immuno-compromised are at great risk. Graduations thrown into flux. Weddings celebrations canceled or delayed. Career changes and advancements halted in their tracks. Travel plans derailed. I do not fear for my own well-being, but I am afraid for the elderly in my local church. I’m afraid for my friend with asthma. I’m afraid for my friend’s sister battling cancer. I’m afraid for the child stuck in a broken home who no longer has access to the structure of a school day and lunch in the cafeteria. 

This is suffering. I do not know why the novel Coronavirus is happening. I’m not comfortable saying God has a plan for this or meant for this to happen because in so many ways I don’t see the goodness of this present moment. To do so would dishonor and be dishonest about the experiences of those who are currently suffering.

That said, I do believe God is real and actually gives a damn about us. In my heart I see the Spirit of God hovering over the world right now just as they hovered over the waters during creation. I imagine Jesus in my bedroom, sitting in the chair across from me, and find that he is not just a savior who will deliver us from this body of death but, more importantly in times like this, he is a wounded savior. He is a man who even now carries scars on his hands and feet and side because in some mysterious, profoundly human way he subjected himself to the violence, injustice, brokenness, and disease of this world and therefore has the embodied capacity to feel it with us. I believe that right now God is actively hurting with each and every one of us and longing to draw near to us, and that if we go to him we will find a friend. I believe we’ll find a friend ready to be with us wherever we’re at: to hold us when we’re shaking uncontrollably with fear and anxiety, to weep with us when a loved one is hospitalized or when our dreams have been shattered, to laugh with us in the funny and absurd moments of being quaratined, to rejoice with us in the beauty of music or the savory goodness of a home-cooked meal, to long for connection and reunifcation with the lover, parent, child, friend, or sibling from which we are now separated. 

 

—If I may venture to suggest one theory about what providence is up to, however, I do suspect that it is no coincidence the pandemic has swept across the world during the season of Lent, which is inaugurated with this exhortation: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” We’re much more in touch with that reality now. We can feel it in our bones, our heartbeat, our breath.

 

—I’m excited about the great output of human creativity that will result from this. Already the world has seen a staggeringly vast and beautiful release of creative energy. Musicians are livestreaming concerts and writing songs. People are painting and writing poetry. They’re creating mini-golf courses in their homes and making epic Lego creations. Teachers are finding new ways to impart knowledge amid upended norms. Parents are finding ways to engage and educate their children. Neighbors are finding new ways to meet each other’s needs.

Spring is here, but we are only now just entering a strange, ill-timed social winter. I’m reminded of Annie Dillard’s reflections about winter in “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek”: 

It is winter proper; the cold weather, such as it is, has come to stay. I bloom indoors in the winter like a forced forsythia; I come in to come out. At night I read and write, and things I have never understood become clear; I reap the harvest of the rest of the year’s planting.

As is so often the case in life, we are in a paradoxical space of both/and. This is a time to sow, to rest, to prepare for life on the other side of this pandemic. But it is also a time to reap the harvest of our creative passions, ingenuity, and inventiveness that we have otherwise neglected.

I recently got the lyrics “live it like a song” tattooed on my arm. If we think of life as a song, then certainly the melody right now has taken a sudden and unexpected modulation into a minor key. But that doesn’t mean it still can’t have the aching, awful beauty that is relentless creativity in the face of pain and tragedy. 

 

—It’s time to appreciate the essential workers in our neighborhoods and in the world at large who keep us alive and safe every day. Truckers and delivery drivers are the new calvary in our war against the virus, transporting all manner of life-sustaining goods ranging from hospital supplies to fresh produce to toilet paper. Mail carriers, powerplant workers, garbage collectors, farmers, all of these oft-neglected individuals are soldiering on to preserve life and keep the world from descending into anarchy. Let’s bless these workers. Let’s honor them. Let’s love them (from afar). My heart aches with joy and love to see that for once we are not only declaring that everyone matters, but knowing it and feeling it deep in our hearts. The elderly and immunocompromised matter. Children in school matter. Therapists matter. Priests and artists, computer programmers and medical researchers, politicians and janitors—they all matter so much right now! This reality, I am increasingly convinced, pulses at the very heartbeat of God, and it is echoing loudly throughout the world because we all bear the imago dei. 

 

—I’m hopeful that we’ll come out of this with a healthier relationship to technology. I do not like that my average time spent on Facebook and on my smartphone has spiked dramatically in recent weeks. I loathe it, in fact, all this screen time. But right now I’m thankful that these technologies exist. I’m thankful for the communication and connection to other human beings that they provide at a time like this. I’m glad that I can still hear the voices and see images of my friends and family at a moment’s notice. At the end of this, however, I hope we see that these mediated methods of communicating and connecting with each other are no substitute for embodied face-to-face encounters. I hope we realize that we cannot live in a cocoon of tech-mediated reality and expect to flourish as humans. I think we will feel a gap, a longing for embodied connection that social media or Zoom cannot fill. Already, at this early stage in the quarantine, I long for the day when I can hug someone—anyone. How sweet, how real, how precious will that moment be, the simple act of hugging someone? And how much more will we appreciate how essential touch is to life itself?

 

—If I could offer one exhortation amid the digital noise of the pandemic, I’d encourage everyone to take some time to practice silence and solitude. Consider Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s warning in “Life Together”:

Let him who cannot be alone beware of community… Let him who is not in community beware of being alone… Each by itself has profound perils and pitfalls. One who wants fellowship without solitude plunges into the void of words and feelings, and the one who seeks solitude without fellowship perishes in the abyss of vanity, self-infatuation and despair.

I’m an introvert, yet I am struggling to live well and make good life choices in conditions where I can’t meet friends for coffee, play pickup ultimate Frisbee, go to the gym, attend a concert, or go out on a date. It may come more easily to some of us than to others, but I propose that the time to get alone with ourselves is now.

Several years ago, over a nine-month span, I had the privilege of experiencing six separate days of silence and solitude. They were the best days of my year. They ushered me into new depths of being. They freed me to find the glory of an entire world in a single flower. They helped me start to taste and see the joy in literally, physically walking with God. They gave my mind space to wander, to compose poetry, to rest and process my life. 

At a time when videoconferencing, phone calls, and social media are the only ways to safely connect with most people, I suspect that the practice of silence and solitude will be the key to avoid being flooded by digital noise. I’m not sure if there’s any other way, in fact, to walk through this into a healthy emotional state on the other side. 

It doesn’t have to be for a full day. Block out a chunk of time from nine to five. Or just a morning. An hour even. Close the laptop. Put away your phone. Turn off Alexa. Go into a still, quiet place, and see what the silence has to say. Brew a cup of coffee and savor its flavor. Light a candle and breathe in its aroma. Tend to a houseplant. Feel the sun shine on your skin. Write a letter, in longhand, to a friend. See what voices begin to speak, where your mind wanders, what feelings rise up. Write about it. Talk to God about it.

We have so much to teach ourselves, if only we will take the time to notice.

Film Review at RedFence: Django Unchained

My review of the film Django Unchained is up over at RedFenceProject.com:

Django Unchained, the latest from director Quentin Tarantino, self-consciously incorporates the classic tropes of a Spaghetti Western with a brash flair of action-flick attitude that refuses to fall completely into our traditional expectations for the genre. We’re familiar with the opening credits in bright yellow font, shoot-’em-up gunfights, Western territories scenery, and campy zoom-in shots at the arrival of new characters, but the final product is unlike any Western I’ve ever seen.

As a prime example, a song with hip-hop elements showed up midway through the eclectic soundtrack, which on the whole tends to draw from Western roots, but puts off a modern vibe at times. Given that the hip-hop jam played as a newly purchased batch of slaves made the long walk to “Candyland,” a plantation home, it felt oddly fitting.

Django treats the subjects of racism and slavery with a brutal yet often comedic irreverence. When Django (Jamie Foxx) and Dr. Schultz (Christoph Waltz) visit a plantation in search of the Brittle brothers, the owner tries to explain to one of his slaves that she isn’t to treat Django like a normal black slave, but he can’t bring himself to simply say that he should be treated like a white man. In another excellent scene (featuring a delightful appearance by Jonah Hill), a band of pre-KKK raiders gather before an attack, only to find that the holes in their hoods are too small to see through. The whole thing is nearly called off until their leader stubbornly demands they go through with it: “Did I say we ain’t wearing bags? It’s a raid! Who cares if you can see! Can the horses see!? That’s all that matters!” Through it all we can’t help but laugh at how sick and twisted the whole business is.

(to continue reading, please click here)

Book Review: “To Change the World: The Irony, Tragedy, & Possibility of Christianity in the Late Modern World”

It was with great eagerness that I picked up James Davison Hunter’s “To Change the World: The Irony, Tragedy, & Possibility of Christianity in the Late Modern World.” As the title suggests, Hunter tries to tackle the contentious topic of culture changing as it’s understood and practiced by Christians. Given that Hunter is both a Christian and prominent sociologist at the University of Virginia, he seems to be a good man for the job.

Any talk of transforming culture inevitably involves politics, and that’s the thing about “To Change the World” that piqued my interest. My understanding of the intersection of Christianity and politics has evolved quite a bit over the past several years (along with my convictions about what that intersection ought to look like). Given that I just graduated from a Christian college and started a fledgling career in politics, I could hardly have chosen something more relevant to my life.

That’s because Hunter sets out to answer the big question: how do Christians go about changing the culture in which they live? Or more generally: how ought we to go about living out our faith and engaging with the world? It’s a timeless subject that Christianity has wrestled through since it’s inception, starting at least with St. Augustine and continuing until today with organizations like Focus on the Family.

Hunter responds to this question in three parts. He first explores the substance of the question: What is culture? How and why does it change? What is it like today and what kind of influence do Christians currently wield? This part of the book is mainly analysis that lays the groundwork for the rest of the book, clears up some misconceptions about world-changing, and defines key terms—what exactly is “culture,” for instance. How do ideas have consequences? Why doesn’t society always reflect the beliefs of the majority?

Whether or not you’ve thought through these questions, it’s well worth the read. Some of Hunter’s answers may surprise you. For instance, changing culture isn’t as simple as “changing the hearts and minds, one person at a time.” Rather, those at the top of elite power structures have far more sway in the movement of our ideas and beliefs than whatever the masses say. Only 15% of America at the most is secular, yet our society–the public square, our classrooms, and so on–is intensely secular.

The second part of the book explains and critiques, in a self-admittedly very broad fashion, the three main movements or “models” that American Christians have adopted over the past several decades in their mission to change the world—the Christian Right, the Christian Left, and the Neo-Anabaptists. He sums them up in the terms “defensive against”, “relevance to”, and “purity from”, respectively.

In the third part, Hunter goes on the offensive, offering a new model for cultural engagement that he terms “faithful presence.” Continue reading →

Book Review: Animal Farm

In terms of making me feel like I’m actually doing something with my life, George Orwell’s “Animal Farm” was a pretty good deal.

Here’s what I mean by that. It was short—at 128 small pages, I read most of it in a single weekend. It is easy to read—written in a clear, simple style. And it’s a classic—ranking just under “1984” on the list of famous Orwell books. In other words, I read a classic over the weekend and understood it.

Wish I could do that every weekend.

But seriously, “Animal Farm” is a pretty good read. Orwell writes with a down-to-earth simplicity that fits the book’s parable-like fairy tale genre. First published in 1946, in the aftermath of Nazi Germany and on the brink of the Cold War between the United States and Soviet Union, Orwell launches a scathing attack on totalitarianism in no uncertain terms in one of the most simple contexts imaginable—a farm.

The plot is simple but effective. It begins on Mr. Jones farm. One night, one of the old hogs gathers all of the animals and tells of a coming revolution. He predicts that one day the time will come for all animals to rise up, overthrow their oppressive human rulers, and establish their own utopia where all animals live in harmony with each other, reap the full fruits of their labor, and enjoy an abundance of food and rest. Soon after the old hog’s death, on a night when Jones was especially drunk and careless with his animals, two younger pigs lead a revolution that ousts the farmer and gives the animals control of the farm.

Everything goes wonderfully, at first. Led by the pigs, the animals collectively work hard for the benefit of each other and quickly establish their own laws of “Animal Farm” to ensure equality and further their cause around the world.  They rename the farm “Animal Farm,” fly their own flag, and sing their own national anthem, “The Beasts of England.” Yet the dreams of a world of animal equality and abundance for all turn out to be nothing more than that—just dreams. Continue reading →

Highlights from Orthodoxy, Part Two

Be sure you’ve read Part One of this post first.

All of my favorite quotes from G.K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy were too long for one post. Here are the highlights from the last three chapters.

From Chapter VII, The Eternal Revolution

Darwinism can be used to back up two mad moralities, but it cannot be used to back up a single sane one. The kinship and competition of all living creatures can be used as a reason for being insanely cruel or insanely sentimental; but not for a healthy love of animals. On the evolutionary basis you may be inhumane, or you may be absurdly humane; but you cannot be human. That you and a tiger are one may be a reason for being tender to a tiger. Or it may be a reason for being as cruel as the tiger. It is one way to train the tiger to imitate you, it is a shorter way to imitate the tiger. But in neither case does evolution tell you how to treat a tiger reasonably, that is, to admire his stripes while avoiding his claws.

The whole case for Christianity is that a man who is dependent upon the luxuries of this life is a corrupt man, spiritually corrupt, politically corrupt, financially corrupt. There is one thing that Christ and all the Christian saints have said with a sort of savage monotony. They have said simply that to be rich is to be in peculiar danger of moral wreck. It is not demonstrably un-Christian to kill the rich as violators of definable justice. It is not demonstrably un-Christian to crown the rich as convenient rulers of society. It is not certainly un-Christian to rebel against the rich or to submit to the rich. But it is quite certainly un-Christian to trust the rich, to regard the rich as more morally safe than the poor.

From Chapter VIII, The Romance of Orthodoxy

Long words go rattling by us like long railway trains. We know they are carrying thousands who are too tired or too indolent to walk and think for themselves. It is a good exercise to try for once in a way to express any opinion one holds in words of one syllable. If you say “The social utility of the indeterminate sentence is recognized by all criminologists as a part of our sociological evolution towards a more humane and scientific view of punishment,” you can go on talking like that for hours with hardly a movement of the gray matter inside your skull. But if you begin “I wish Jones to go to gaol and Brown to say when Jones shall come out,” you will discover, with a thrill of horror, that you are obliged to think. The long words are not the hard words, it is the short words that are hard. There is much more metaphysical subtlety in the word “damn” than in the word “degeneration.” Continue reading →