Saying Goodbye to an Old and Dear Friend

This is a long-overdue blog post. Over a year ago, I promised Glynn Young a sterling review of his latest novel, Dancing Prince , which would serve as the fifth and final novel in Glynn's Dancing Priest series. Those of you who have followed this blog know of my other reviews and may wonder why this one is so long in coming. Simply put, at the time I readied myself to write one, our family went through some very pronounced trials that delayed this project. And yet, I think there was more than that. To write a review on the final book in this series is to admit the end arrived, that it was time to say goodbye to an old and dear friend, to tell Michael Kent--cyclist, priest, hero, and King of Great Britain and Northern Ireland--farewell.

But the time has come to do so, and as I have looked back over the story of Dancing Prince twice more, I find echoes of all that is good, strained through much angst and hardship, whispering through its pages. And this is done in more than one way.

First, much like the biblical book of Ecclesiastes, we find a message that is neither optimistic nor pessimistic, but realistic--the poignant reality of pain can show up the further one moves through life. As readers have grown to know and, yes, love, Michael Kent from his earliest days at the University of Edinburgh in Dancing Prince, through his wedded bliss to Sarah Hughes, their adoption of Jason and Jim, and the expansion of their royal clan via the births of Henry, Sophie, Helen, and (the youngest) Thomas, we have known challenges to befall the family. But outright tragedy has been stiff-armed from much of their existence as if facing the depicted player on the Heisman Trophy. In Dancing Prince, hope is battered, bruised, and disfigured. Without giving away the plot, tragedy strikes from every angle. Sickness and death, relationship spoilage and death, and even the remaining connection between father and son seems to be going through a slow, steady demise. No matter what snippets of goodness and hope arise, for much of the book these fleeting moments seem to be a chasing after the wind (Ecclesiastes 2:17). And yet all this is helpful to the reader. The longer a story goes, just like life, the greater the chances that sadness will weave itself into the fabric of the journey. Glynn Young deserves full credit for not allowing the story to be filtered through rose-colored glasses and where everything is strawberries and cream. To know that Michael Kent and his family share something of our travails is, at its root, encouraging. Our heroes suffer as we do. We are not alone. 

Secondly, the bruised relationship between youngest son Thomas and his father, King Michael, will force the reader to adopt new measures. For one, after reading Dancing Prince, we will never experience Michael in the same light through the first four books of the series ever again. In re-reading Dancing Priest, A Light Shining, Dancing King, and Dancing Prophet, we will always brace ourselves for the rough waters we know are coming in Dancing Prince. We will steel ourselves to face the experience of walking alongside a king who spends too much time at work and forgets--however briefly--his family. We will prepare ourselves for the emotional loss and emptiness we will vicariously experience through Michael. And yet, we will also get to see a Michael 2.0 in Thomas, whom Queen Sarah even admits is the most like Michael of all their children. We see him gain lauded experience on the archaeological dig on the Orkney Islands as his father was lauded for sparkling duty and glory in the Olympics. Thomas finds love with a student assigned to the dig, as Michael fell hard and fast for Sarah in his university days. And even early break-ups, a factor for both Thomas and Michael, result in a renewal of hope and a commitment to love. And the throne of Great Britain? To be sure, both men face roundabout, unusual paths to the Crown. While our hearts ache for Michael, we find them restored through the actions of Thomas.

And finally, the good news in Dancing Prince might be in what doesn't happen. In the end, Michael doesn't fail. As Michael's difficulties and estrangement from Thomas keeps mounting, I couldn't help but think, "Oh gosh, no...I feel like I'm in I Kings 11 again!" Solomon, king of Israel, so gifted with wisdom and giftedness that stunned the world, could not remain faithful in middle and old age. His heart is drawn away through distraction and idolatry, his kingdom ripped from him. And yet, in the end, Michael--unlike Solomon--will admit his shortcomings so that he might turn away from disaster. His wisdom, he confesses via his actions, goes only so far, and he realizes the danger of following pride over spiritual insight. It is as if Michael declares, "I will not be a Solomon! I will be one whom God desires me to be!" In his actions, we receive more than a hopeful ending; we are able to see the confession on bended knee we all much make before Christ, to admit our inadequacy in our trials, and to cling to a Strength beyond what we possess. And in the midst of that admission, like Michael, we find restoration. We find cleansing. We find hope.

All great literature brings readers to a place of greater hope than they possessed before they entered the story before them. The saga of the Dancing Priest series means Glynn Young accomplishes this in spades. My only regret is that the series has to come to an end. But even though Michael Kent will not return to any more of stories, the good news is that by the magic of re-reading, we can always return to his.

Jesus and His Implicit Claims

 This is something I wrote up responding to a friend who asked questions about if Jesus really claimed to be God in the Gospel accounts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. I was making it available to my Worldviews classes for an upcoming test, and it struck me it might be a good idea to make it public here, if you're into that sort of stuff.

 It’s true to a large degree that much—if this term means anything—conservative Christian scholarship has neglected the synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) on the issue of Christ’s deity. A number of Christians tend to sense more comfort with John’s Gospel. This may be due to the fact (1) it is written more simply and (2) Jesus’ claims to deity are extraordinarily explicit within John’s account. 

I do think that last line is critical, though. Jesus claims to be God in the most direct, explicit terms in John’s Gospel. It’s easy and understandable to embrace the default mode that if Jesus’ claims of deity are strong in John and if such claims are not as explicit in the Synoptics, then the Synoptic authors are not clear about Jesus’ divine nature. Many evangelicals tense up at this and get awfully muddled in their replies…then again, such can be par for the course from much of the American evangelical landscape which tends to only take seriously what Scripture says when it makes them happy or comfortable. However, I would offer that direct statements or claims of divinity are not the only ways in which Christ might establish his divine nature. To assume that what is done in John must be done likewise in the Synoptics is understandable, but it begs the question. Clear or explicit claims are not the only ways in which one might establish one’s nature. Perhaps an analogy can help (and keep in mind, it’s an imperfect analogy; I’m willing to admit that). 

Imagine one is taking a tour of a college. You might peek your head into a classroom where a discussion of the English Reformation is taking place. You see a collection of young adults around some tables with some primary documents and other books in front of them. There is another (slightly) older person moving around and asking questions, probing the comments made by the young adults and offering counter-suggestions. The older person is wearing a tweed jacket with an open-collared shirt, with jeans and hiking boots; other than the jacket, nothing would physically separate him from the others. Yet something does. He is asking questions, referring to parallel examples (“How does this compare to Luther’s approach? To Calvin’s approach? Why the emphasis on the authority of the king over the pope rather than the appeal to conscience like Luther at Worms?”), and he might affirm responses from the young adults, remind them of an upcoming test or paper, and even distributed selections from Cranmer’s 1552 edition of the Book of Common Prayer as assigned readings for the next time they meet. 

What would we assume about our tweed-jacketed friend from the prior example? Most likely that he was the professor (or assistant prof, or adjunct prof, but you get the idea), right? But wait…he never said specifically he was a professor or teacher of any kind! He never said he had a Ph.D. or that he was on staff at the college. Why did we draw those conclusions? Could it have been due to the implicit nature of his actions that seem to make an indirect claim for his professorship? 

I know that any analogy comparing to Jesus’ divine claim will not be an exact match, but I do think we’re on to something here (granted, as a Christian who believes in the divinity of Christ, I admit my bias). When we turn to the Synoptic Gospels, I think we get the same rub as our professor example. The Synoptics seem to express an implicit Christology (that is reaffirmed in the Creeds of Nicea and Chalcedon, cementing agreement with Christ’s divine nature) that comes from Jesus’ awareness of his deity and messiahship and (more to the point) his actions which demonstrate the functions and honor that belong to God alone. Christian statesmen such as W.G.T. Shedd and John Stott have already specified examples, but it doesn’t hurt to bring some out here for the sake of argument. 

(A) Jesus judges humans beings in a way that can only leave us with the conclusion he is implicitly claiming divinity. For instance, he claims to know the thoughts (Matthew 9:4, 12:25) and hypocritical insinuations (Matthew 22:18) of people. He claims he will sit in judgment over people at the Last Judgment (Matthew 7:22-23, 16:27, 25:34-41) and authorize his angels in this judgement (Matthew 25:31-46). 

(B) Jesus forgives sins. I know this doesn’t seem like a claim to divinity at first. After all, if Luka Modric bumps Gareth Bale in the Wales-Croatia game presently airing on ESPN and then calls him a “retarded Welsh bastard”, I think we’d agree that would be wrong. Now Bale could tell Modric he was forgiven, and truly, Bale has that right. He has that right, though, because Bale was the one offended by Modric’s slur. If Daniel James left his position to go over to Modric and say, “I forgive you for what you said to Gareth”, that’d be both bizarre and out of place (and as a Wales fan, I’d wonder why James was so out of position!). Modric’s offense was not against Daniel James. But when Jesus forgives the sins of others, he is hitting this at a deeper level than our human-to-human expressions of forgiveness. He publicly forgave the sins of individuals on two occasions in the Synoptics. There is the occasion of the paralytic lowered through the roof in both Mark 2:1-12 and Luke 5:17-26 where Jesus tells the paralytic “Your sins are forgiven”. To give a blanket pardon of this sort logically implies either of two things: (1) Jesus is psychotically out of his tree or (2) Jesus is claiming to be the one who is ultimately offended in all sins, which is God. The same expression is used in Luke 7:36-50 where Jesus forgives the sins of the prostitute who anoints his feet with ointment. Most likely, Jesus had never met either the paralytic or the prostitute before. Why would he offer forgiveness? Because somehow, they had sinned against him. And if only God is offended by every sin, Jesus is making an implicit claim to be God. The reaction of the Pharisees to varied times when Jesus forgave sins (Matthew 9:3, Luke 5:21) is outrage for what they view as blasphemy, so they knew what Jesus indirectly claimed through his actions. 

(C) Jesus grants eternal life. While this is most explicitly tied to Jesus’ deity in John gospel, Jesus does offer eternal life in the conversation with the rich young ruler (Matthew 19:16-31; Mark 10:17-21; Luke 18:18-22) if he would sell everything and follow him as evidence of a life transformed by God’s grace. We may ask, “Isn’t that what ministers, priests, and missionaries might do?” In a way…but ordinary Christians can only point to the eternal life God grants to humanity. Only God can grant that regenerated life.

(D) Jesus claims his presence is God’s presence. Jesus makes a bold claim in Matthew 12:6 when he says “One greater than the Temple is here.” The Jerusalem Temple was viewed as the dwelling place of God, so what could be greater than the Temple than the One who dwelt there? Jesus’ claim to omnipresence comes through in Matthew 28:20 when he says that wherever the disciples go to make disciples (which was a lot of different places), he is with them always. 

(E) Jesus claims that one’s response to him will determine one’s eternal destiny. Eternal life is a gift to those who trust Jesus and profess him with their changed hearts and lives (Matthew 7:21-27, 10:32-33). He also makes some incredibly demanding calls upon the lives of people to love him more than anything or anyone; he says the one unwilling to forfeit one’s life for Christ will have no place with him eternally (Matthew 10:37-39, 16:24-26; Mark 8:34-38; Luke 9:57-62, 14:26-27). Jesus is telling people that he demands the place of supreme affection in one’s life; biblically, the only one who can legitimately demand that is God. Either Jesus has blown all his circuits of reason, or this is an implicit, indirect, yet sober claim to be God.

(F) Jesus parallels actions toward him with actions toward God. Yes, this is clearest in John’s Gospel, but we do get claims like this in the Synoptics. In Matthew 10:40, when Jesus sends out the disciples, he says “Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me.” Mark 9:37 notes Jesus saying, “Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me, and whoever receives me, receives not me but the one who sent me.” 

(G) Jesus taught the truth one his own authority. Some people have considered Jesus a prophet, and there is no doubt—from a Christian vantage point—he is fulfilling that role as the one greater than Moses (Deuteronomy 18:18). But the Old Testament prophets were careful to affirm that their message was God’s, not their own (Jeremiah and Amos being explicit examples). They would use phrases like “This is what the Lord says”, “The word of the LORD came to me”, or “I heard the Lord’s voice.” They drew a separation between their person and God in a way which preserved God’s divine authority and inserted none of their own in the origin of the message they proclaimed. Jesus, however, seems to know that his teaching had ultimate importance: It grants true wisdom (Mt. 7:24), it never fails (Mt. 24:35), and it must be taught to all nations (Mt. 28:18-19). And Jesus doesn’t prelude his teaching with “This is what the Lord said to me”, but rather “Truly I say to you.” This expression is used a total of 74 times in the Gospels. Twenty-five occurrences are in John, but in addition to Luke’s six and Mark’s thirteen, Matthew uses it thirty times (perhaps to underscore Jesus’ divinity to his primarily Jewish audience?). While the Old Testament prophets go to great lengths to deny their personal authority in the origin of their message, Jesus is emphasizing his words are true because he says them. And the only one, in a biblical frame of reference, who would say nothing but truth all the time is God himself. 

(H) Jesus performed miracles on his own authority. Yes, others in the Bible performed miracles. Exodus records Moses did that neat snake thingy before Pharaoh. Acts 3 shows Peter and John healing a lame beggar. And these are two mere examples. But whenever the issue of who gets the credit for the miracle comes up, those in the Old Testament and Acts give explicit and direct props to God. Through the Synoptics, when Jesus heals, he doesn’t give credit to the Father. Neither does he explain his miracles. We are left with the implication that he is healing via his own power and that he can override nature when he desires to do so…Many times Jesus affirms that the miracle occurs because he wills it. The leper in Matthew 8:2-3, the centurion in Matthew 8:5-13, and the blind men in Matthew 20:29-34 all receive this assurance. 

(I) Jesus receives worship, reverence, praise, and other reactions that are only appropriate for God alone. Many people fall down or bow down to Jesus and he does not dissuade them (Mark 5:27, 33; Luke 5:8). This is in marked contrast to others in Scripture, like Peter, who humbly tells Cornelius he’s just a man like him and to get up from a kneeling position (Acts 10:26), or the disastrous pride of Herod (Acts 12:22-23). To be sure, not every bowing is an act of worship; demons fall before Christ, and they sure ain’t worshiping him (Lark 3:11; Luke 8:28). However, there is no doubt Jesus did allow others to fall at his feet while they praised God for his mighty acts. The leper in Luke 17:15-19 comes to mind. The main point is that if Jesus were not God, then he should be telling people to get up, not bow before him. For him to receive these expressions without batting an eye means—to paraphrase C.S. Lewis once again, he is either a madman or he is who he claims to be. 

(J) Jesus takes texts from the Old Testament that describe God and applies them to himself. In Matthew 21:15-16, when the Jewish leaders complain that the children of Jerusalem welcomed Jesus in the triumphal entry with cries of “Hosanna to the Son of David”, Jesus quotes Psalm 8:2 in reply: “From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise.” As Psalm 8 is addressed “O LORD, our Lord”, Jesus is applying an Old Testament passage about God to himself. When Jesus claims that heaven and earth will pass away, but his words will never do so, he is claiming his words have the exact same permanence and durability as God’s (Matthew 24:35; Mark 13:13; Luke 21:33, compare with Isaiah 40:8). 

(K) One last item about Jesus’ titles. I know full well that followers of God are at times called sons of God (many verses in Paul’s epistles echo this), but Jesus receives the title “Son of God” without flinching in several places in Matthew and Luke. One can argue the title itself is an implied claim to deity (for more, read Peter Kreeft’s Between Heaven and Hell). After all, if a human father has offspring, it will be human, of course, not salamander nor rabbit nor giraffe. Only a wolf father can beget a wolf son. Only a sun bear father can beget a sun bear son. This is because a son will bear the nature of his father. And the Son of God would bear the…well, the title itself seems to imply deity. 

I hope this didn’t get too long and winding. And I hope there’s clarity in the midst of it. I wanted to give a fair shake to the question of the Synoptics. It's correct that they don’t make the blinding-light-specificity-by-comparison that John’s Gospel does. I think it can be natural to expect they might do so the same way, and I can’t explain why (except for audience or stylistic reasons) why they didn’t, but I don’t want to press too many of my expectations for how a story should go upon another author who would have their own reasons for the presentation of their account. I think what is true is that even if the Synoptics’ evidence of Jesus’ claims of deity aren’t as explicit as John’s, there are many places where Jesus’s claims are implied and done in skillful if indirect fashion. Maybe it’s helpful to think of it like the difference between a reporter and a novelist. The reporter must “tell” what is and thus must be more explicit; the novelist has latitude to “show” and so can use a variety of methods like dialogue, description, foreshadowing, and inference to make his or her point. Accounts can press the same truths upon us in varied fashions. 

Remembering Uncle Glenn

 Nineteen days ago, I flew westward out of St. Louis into the heart of the Mountain Time Zone. I was headed to Denver before catching a connecting flight to Colorado Springs, where I would be ordained as a deacon that evening at Holy Trinity Church, a culmination of sorts for my holy orders within the Anglican Church in North America. But the service wasn't on my mind as we began our descent into Denver, with the Rocky Mountains arrayed over the landscape. My thoughts were drawn to the plight of my uncle Glenn Davis. Ninety years old, he was dealing with a COVID-19 diagnosis and was in some rehab before he could return to his senior living quarters near Littleton. When I walked through the airport, I regretted that I had just a little over an hour before my flight to Colorado Springs. It would have been nice to visit Uncle Glenn, but even if I had the time, COVID restrictions meant I'd get nowhere close to a face-to-face meeting. It was not to be.

After that evening, I went back to St. Louis, with stole and ordination certificated in hand. After a few days, my dad informed my brothers and me that Glenn had contracted pneumonia on top of his COVID. It was hospice time and Glenn wasn't expected to linger much beyond a few days. He was content to let matters go and face the end.

An end, as it turned out, that was sooner than later. I got back from church last Sunday, after my first diaconal duties in Holy Communion to an email from Dad. Uncle Glenn had died quietly at 2:30 that morning. 

Occasionally, sad news hits you like an unexpected gut punch beyond what you envisioned. Geographically, our family was not close to Uncle Glenn and Aunt Clarice, and my father (being the unplanned caboose of a litter of five boys) was fourteen years Glenn's junior. But many grand memories of Uncle Glenn have caused any of those distances to vaporize. He was a wonderful uncle whom I grew to prize over the years.

Once, when we stopped by his place in suburban Kansas City in 1985, he took my brothers and me over to his country club so we could go swimming, and--in a magnificent expression of generosity--Uncle Glenn said, "Now, boys, if you get hungry, the concession stand is over there. Don't pay a dime...just mention my name and they'll put it on my tab."

My uncle had a tab. To a lad just shy of fifteen years old, that was amazing news. And dangerous, given my appetite. Remarkably, we restrained ourselves with only an Eskimo Pie apiece.

Glenn could wax eloquently about anything, I found. Even at a wake. No kidding. In the summer of 1986, Grandpa Davis died and we all gathered together in Sandy Lake, Pennsylvania. Glenn gave me an enthusiastic hello in the funeral home--all "hellos" were enthusiastic with Glenn--and then asked me how things had gone with football the past year. I talked about playing offensive line and the differences in blocking schemes between guards and tackles. And Glenn--almost as if he was hoping to discuss X's and O's--launched into a fabulous monologue regarding how to block on traps, counters, and the like. He even talked about what to look out for with a four-man front, five-man, or the wide-tackle-6. And we were at his father's and my grandfather's visitation, and he was acting as if we were in a locker room at halftime. It was incredible.

Even more insane was how Glenn was the ringleader after the funeral dinner when we were back at Grandma's house. My dad and all the uncles, and their families, crashed in the living rooms, and I swear Glenn and the others told so many yarns and gut-busting stories the place roared with laughter like it was a comedy club, with no story being taboo, Glenn laughing the loudest. Poor Grandma put her hand to her head and pleaded, "Can't you boys think of something pleasant to talk about?" And Glenn would launch into the next, "D'ya remember when...?" moment.

I'm sure he'd given Grandma many anxious moments. In a family storybook, Glenn gave a tribute to Grandma, saying that she had been unable to come to many of his high school events when he was younger, but "she made a special point to attend my final football game of my senior year." Then, in deadpan form, he wrote, "I was kicked out of the game for fighting."

Glenn the generous. He got us tickets for a Royals baseball game when we went through town in 1989, making sure we took his parking pass along. The Royals, as they have in all seven games where I've seen them in person, won the game that night as Uncle Glenn made a memory.

But perhaps the three memories I know of happen to be more of the lump-in-the-throat variety. After they moved out to Estes Park, Colorado, and as age took a toll, Aunt Clarice's mind slipped as her dementia rose. Taking care of the house while shepherding Clarice's needs proved very taxing for Glenn, but he soldiered on with determination. Dad recalls that Glenn was asked why he didn't just put Clarice in a nursing home, and Glenn point-blank said, "Well, I signed up for this." Uncle Glenn kept his vows stubbornly, in an age when so many marriages shipwreck over so much less.

Ultimately, he and Clarice had to enter nursing care after a while. Clarice continued to slip while Glenn visited her on her wing of the facility with the devotion of a young lover. One day, Glenn arrived in her room as Clarice was taking a nap, and he lay down and snuggled up next to his bride. Maybe he figured he didn't know how many chances he'd have to do that anymore. As it turns out, he was right to do so. In a moment reminiscent of any Nicholas Sparks scene, Clarice died as Glenn dozed with her. He signed up for it, and was with her to the end.

One final memory came after I published my first novel, Litany of Secrets. Inspired by P.D. James, I set the tale of murders at a seminary with a wheelchair-bound detective named Cameron Ballack in hot pursuit of justice. A number of people wrote reviews on Amazon, and I will always be grateful for their kind words. But the greatest verbal treasure I got regarding my authorial debut was from Uncle Glenn himself. Dad had sent him a copy of Litany of Secrets as the story took place in the St. Louis region and Glenn and Clarice had lived in St. Louis before their Kansas City days. He sent me a hand-written letter, saying how thankful he was to have gotten a copy, that he had really enjoyed the story, and how wonderful it was to be able to read a novel and be familiar with the places it describes.

I still have that letter.

Yes, I'd rather Uncle Glenn still be alive. But a ninety-year life lived well is something to be proud of. And looking back on the memories he created is something I can always enjoy. 

Miss you, Uncle Glenn, and thank you for everything.

A Thought for Ascension Day

More recently I posted about Holy Saturday. Now that we come to Ascension Day, we need a reminder of everything that plays into Jesus' kingly rule.

For that, the words of Kenneth Tanner, pastor of Holy Redeemer Church in Rochester Hills, Michigan, are especially helpful and timely. Kenneth graciously allowed me to take these words of his Facebook post this morning and re-post them here. He also served on staff of Touchstone magazine, so he is quite the wordsmith. I hope you will be blessed by his words as I was.

"For Ascension:

Against our attempts to make the resurrection a ghost party, like a wisp of fog on hot tea, Jesus appears among us forever with 'real wounds', shows us that resurrection is a matter of flesh and bones, of broiled fish and honeycomb. Christ reveals that his resurrection (and ours) is culinary and involves eating.

His wounded body, a body that yet eats, a body of flesh and bones--flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone--ascends to what it means to be God in eternity, forever taking with his embodied self all the good and hard memories of what it means to be human.

He remembers comfort from the injuries of childhood in the arms of his mother, the ecstatic gladness of meals with friends, the anxiety of facing torture, that odd mixture of cold and thirst in the desert night, and intense heartache at the tomb of his friend. All of this ascends with Christ.

We worship a God who remembers what it is like to die a human death, whose wounded and resurrected body is the antidote to death. As the human who exists beyond the touch of death, this one who remembers all our faces can keep his promises--promises he makes as the new human and as God.

And it is this wounded God with human memories whose rule of resurrection overcomes death, whose rule of forgiveness overcomes sin, whose rule of welcome overcomes estrangement. Now and forever no other human except Jesus Christ governs this wide globe, no matter how certain their control may seem.

Jesus Christ is (in all these ways and countless others) Lord."

The Forgotten Day

We know what it's like to forget something. Car keys, books, wallets, purses. Now with the COVID-19 pandemic, schools in America are looking at forgetting of another kind...forgetting about coming back to school. No senior celebration dinner, no prom for my twelfth-grade daughter. In short, 2020 is turning into a year we'd like to forget.

There are days on the calendar that we happen to forget. As watchful as we in the Christian year tradition might be, Easter weekend falls into that category. Although church services must necessarily worship in online fashion, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday gatherings still occur in cyberspace. But there is one day that tends to fall by the wayside.

Today. Holy Saturday.

It's somewhat understandable because, outside of a lot of disciple-and-other-Christ-follower mourning, nothing much significantly happened on the first Holy Saturday. It remains as the trudging bridge between Christ's crucifixion and resurrection. How do you, one might ask, pull together worship resources to dwell on Jesus lying in the tomb?

It looks like nothing much is going on. And that is exactly the point. That's what it looks like from a close angle. But widen the redemptive lens, and we might see a whole lot more, if we stick with the John 19 passage about Jesus' burial.

Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus have gone public with their allegiance to Christ by preparing him for the burial, with loads of spices and all. And that's where we get the most amazing news!

John 19:41-42 says "Now in the place where he was crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb in which no one had been laid. So because of the Jewish day of Preparation, since the tomb was close at hand, they laid Jesus there."

There. In the tomb. In the garden. In a garden!

Why so special, you ask? Isn't Jesus still dead?

Yes, but that's one frame on the continuing film of God's story of redemption. There's so much more. This fits with everything else.

Genesis 2: God initiates creation with a garden.

Genesis 3: The fall into sin occurs in the same garden, and then God--unwilling to give up on humanity--makes the covenant of grace in that same garden.

John 19: Jesus' purchases redemption on a cross in a garden, is buried in that garden, and breaks sin's power with his resurrection in the same garden.

Revelation 22: End of human history. Standing in the New Jerusalem of the new heavens and new earth is the tree of life, in a garden of other trees, where all is restored.

God, it seems, loves gardens. They are arenas for his grace and mercy.

Jesus is buried in a garden? That is no defeat, but rather the next chapter in a glorious story entitled Creation, Fall, Redemption, Restoration.

God has not let go of us. That is the message of Holy Saturday.

May we never forget.

Double-Edged Sword

I've been sorting through a bit of varied reading lately. One book is a biography of former president Millard Fillmore from the American Presidents Series. Then there is Faceless Killers, the first in the Wallander series by Henning Mankell. And then, there's a brief volume I got in the mail last week: Sam Allberry's Why Does God Care Who I Sleep With?. And that book, in a more direct way, brought about this post.

Allberry tackles the question of sex and the Christian parameters of sexual activity in...hold on to your hats...somewhere in the neighborhood of 130-140 pages. That's all. You'd think that would leave a lot uncovered, and I suppose some people end the book with unanswered questions, but in truth, Allberry's work is meaty and concise. Economy of style and weightiness of insight can and do exist side by side. He is simple without being simplistic.

And to find out more, you'll have to read Sam Allberry's book for yourself. I'm really wanting to segue to my own writing experience.

When I pitched the idea of an ethics book to Christian Focus Publications, I didn't want them to see it as an exhaustive slaloming through the powdery snowdrifts of moral theology. I mean, there's a place for that, but it was beyond my desire. As Tough Issues, True Hope: A Concise Journey Through Christian Ethics took hold in my mind and took shape on my laptop, I wanted it to have a clear focus, conversational delivery, and--to really stand out--a concise approach. Yes, I believed so much in the latter idea that it became part of the subtitle.

I admit that was a conspiracy on my part. Each chapter is short. The smallest one (outside of the preface and epilogue) is six pages long and the longest is about 11-12 pages. The whole book comes to a mere 240 pages. That in and of itself could be risky. Some readers might be expecting a mine of detail and could be disappointed. I even say in the preface that such folks "could wonder why I don't turn over every rock for discussion." But in truth, I never see myself or my ideas as the final word on any moral topic. So, I tell readers "I want to take you a certain distance and then trust you to do more consideration, more research, more though, more collaboration and discussion with others. Test what you read here and shake it out. I'm trying to get you started on that journey."

I really think that part of being a fiction writer helped here. I'm a believer in the mantra "Show, don't tell". Readers want their authors to show them the story and let them bring their own color and enjoyment to it. That's why I like to use dialogue and incidental events to build characters rather than tell people what they are like.

What this comes down to--this desire to be concise as I dabble in this attempt at nonfiction--is a matter of trust. I think this is what motivates Sam Allberry and others who publish concise yet robust volumes. We trust the reader to take the baton, to receive and chew on what we share, and then go further with questions and soul pursuit. Authors constantly fight against the temptation to say more than we need to; what can be refreshing is the humility to say we don't have to say everything. We can trust our readers to munch on the picnic we set before them and digest it in ways that will feed them in the most nourishing manner.

The Trinity of Inquiry

I remember going to a hockey game in St. Louis back on March 22, 1994, at the old Arena on Oakland Avenue. Partly because of my devotion to the visiting Philadelphia Flyers and partly out of feisty desire to rile others around me, I wore my orange Flyers jersey and hoped my boys would break their four-game winless streak. 

I didn't need to wait long for the Flyers to take control on their way to a 6-3 win. A dish of the puck from Mark Recchi and Brent Fedyk fed Rob DiMaio for his ninth goal of the year two minutes after the opening face-off. With animal exultation, I leaped from my seat, pumped my fist into the air, and screamed "YES!"

Needless to say, Blues fans around me weren't pleased. In fact, their responses are unprintable for this blog. The truth was, by my clothing and my actions, I stood out in marked contrast to those around me.

It's one thing to do that at an NHL game. You can do that or not, and the world will go on. But when you write a book in a subject area where there are scores of volumes covering like material, you need to stand out. How was I going to do that when I wrote my book on Christian ethics?

It's not necessarily because of what you write. I've previously mentioned the various topics in the book, which you can glance at here. But as I read other tomes on moral living, I began to notice a trend. Some authors do a great job of describing--in great depth--what the issue is. Pages and pages have been written on racism, abortion, murder, homosexuality, and other matters. Some authors write with a clear agenda to convince you that "X" is what you should believe about a moral issue, and at the very least you should embrace why it is so critical.

In other words, some authors declare, "This is what it's all about!"

Other writers declare, "This is why it matters!"

In the process of reviewing all these varied takes on ethics, I noticed two things: (1) It was hard to find someone who gave equal shrift to explaining an issue and demonstrating why people should care, and (2) hardly anyone spilled ink on practical applications for how to put moral understanding into everyday action.

I often come back to a definition of faith coined by Brian McLaren. There's probably more of what McLaren says that I'd distance myself from than what I'd embrace, but he's spot-on with his definition here (keep in mind he's talking about faith in general and not Christian faith, though the latter is a more specified subset of the other). McLaren says that, "Faith is a state of relative certainty about matters of ultimate concern sufficient to promote action."

I remembered that saying and thought, "Bam! There's my approach."

We have to know what are the components of a moral issue ("state of relative certainty"). But if we leave it there, then we just have factual data with no gas in the tank. What have to answer the question, "So what?", so that people can sense why this is so critical, so they can have buy-in ("about matters of ultimate concern"). But if we leave it here, we stop at passionate sentimentality. Our beliefs need to have legs; they must be "sufficient to promote action". Therefore, we are driving toward thinking "Now what?" What are some practical ways we can apply this and be involved if this is true and this matters? We have to believe, then believe in, and then be living it out.

To that end, all chapters except one will be structured around this what-so what-now what format. I am convinced that consideration of Christian ethics means a commitment that what makes sense in our head must move our souls and find expression with our hands and feet. It's an approach that I believe will truly stand apart from others. And I am ever grateful that my publishers, Christian Focus Publications, believes in taking a chance on someone who believes in this approach.

[Next post: "Double-Edged Sword"...Why a concise volume can gladden and frustrate your readers.]