Words are funny things. They hold so much weight, yet sometimes seem so flimsy, empty, devoid of meaning or not wide enough to contain the moment. A few syllables, a pair of diphthongs, or even a single sigh can express the entire gravity of a moment, and yet an entire novel cannot begin to cover the expanse of the millisecond. It's been said that the works of Christ are so numerous that the world could not contain the scrolls to tell of such wonders (John 21:25). Yet, for all those words, such a simple phrase like "get up and walk" or "come" or even the uttering of a name carry just as much clout and meaning.
We use words, abuse words, make words and break words down. We write words, type words, highlight words and often times find ourselves at a loss for words. Words are inclusive and exclusive, elusive and intrusive. Gadamer knew words, he saw that words created our world, embodied it into our own structure. In saying the we want a certain bike, car, book, or sandwich we are simultaneously, by the exclusiveness of language, denying all other possibilities. When we say "THAT bike" we mean "the red bike with orange trim and 14 gears with rusted tires and a black horn", and in that very phrase we deny any wanting of a purple bike, a tricycle, or anything else besides THAT bike. Yet, whenever language is exclusive, it is also inclusive insofar that whoever speaks a language is only truly speaking a language if those words and phrases are heard and understood by someone. Language is communal. In fact, the way we see the world is shaped by how we say it. Without language, humanity would have no medium for interpretation, no mode of explanation, and method of proclamation.
Yet how often language fails us. How often we are empty of words.
God empties us of words. How are we to describe one some much wiser than us, more benevolent than us, and beyond all grasps of time and space? How are we to speak of one whose openness to love is simultaneously a mystery of the most epic of proportions? How are we to use words to describe the utter dismay of our sorrows, the brokenness of our spirits, and our frequent inability to trust when words of encouragement and humanity are just not enough.
We so often put it into words. We put Christianity into words. We define Christ-following by words. But in the end, such tools are insufficient to state what these things mean. A trinitarian God whose love for human, in mirroring God's love for God's self, extends beyond space and time to the very moment where God walks among us, speaks to us, and dies for us. Tertullian, an early church theologian, invented hundreds of terms to more specifically describe such things, and in the end humanity ended where it started; no closer to the truth. Our words cannot contain the breadth and the width of God, our hearts cannot hold the glory of God's glory, and our minds cannot comprehend the hope of God's kingdom.
It's so easy to get discouraged when all we have is words; simple words. It's when words fail that God begins. It's when our trust in humanities attempts to describe and contemplate our Savior fails that God kicks in. It is then that the bleakness of the moment gives way to prayer, not without doubts, but prayer and hope in the future nonetheless.
God's kingdom is coming. A kingdom where words cannot describe, where phrases cannot contain the glory of God.
When hope is meager, faith is hard to come by, and the future seems unstable and quaggy, there is always hope beyond words.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Where Have All The Philosophers Gone?
This afternoon I noticed a story posted in the Wall Street Journal and nearly fell out of my chair, reaching to the floor to pick my jaw off the ground where it hastily fell in bewilderment. A recent survey was conducted asking people from various disciplines of higher education to state their level of satisfaction with their degree in accordance to their welfare in the last half-decade. The results stated that those who were most likely to be disappointing with their didactic investment were those in the field of Psychology, African-American studies, and (gasp!) Philosophy.
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Fate, Future, and The Great Bambino
I'm not someone who is superstitious. I don't take chances, a mantra I've sadly learned from experience (by way of one too many dog-eared Euchre hands). The blind squirrel occasionally may find a nut, the dog a bone, and even the fool now and again can toss up a kernel of wisdom (perhaps you're reading one right now). In short, when it comes to predicting the future, it's easier said than done.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
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