Phone Home, Elke and Sven, Phone Home

What a powerful, counter-cultural post by Elke Naters and Sven Lager on Zeit Online. What a rare modern, public witness to the radical love of Christianity. What a testimony as to why these poor but sexy Berliners who moved to South Africa and embraced the faith of the "transforming power of love,"' to use their words. Haven't read it yet? Click on the link and read it. Don't know German? Pop that baby into Google Translate and let'er rip. It's worth it.

Naters and Lager moved to South Africa, because, among the rhythms of their Berlin life - "writing books, having kids, going drinking" - they went, comfortably enough, "with any particular pain, but without any particular depth." In contrast, I moved to Western Europe. Growing up in a family who always heard from international people and international places, Western Europe was like a storybook of endless chapters that I could step into. Heck, eventually I married into it. The food, the trains, the culture mish mash, the hoards of bright, artistic people who valued not just producing things but the moments where drinks and walks and bike rides are shared with friends. These things just weren't as abundant in the land of individualism and energetic economy.

That life of drinks and art and conversation - well, I wouldn't have given that up for South African excitement, myself. Maybe that was their storybook place. I read "Cry, the Beloved Country," and believe me, I want to see the country, but I'm not sure if I'd be ready for the pain part. But for Naters and Lager, they needed to taste more life. Something (to paraphrase their words) more radical than punk, communism or whatever isms we stuff in our soul to make the world better and our morals correct. In Africa, they found a land that was not just Christ-haunted, but Christ-bathed, a land of amazing healing, yes, but of even more amazing forgiveness and reconciliation, repentance and belief.

I'm glad they wrote their piece, not in some right-wing rag, but in one of the most respected German-language newspapers. I like that they included conversations over wine with their bewildered Berliner friends. (The title of the piece is, after all, "You actually believe in the Bible?") I like that, judging by the 760 (my last count) comments, many full of snide and bile, that they seemed to hit a nerve, a nerve I'm so often afraid to touch. And, believe me, I hope all of this is a sign that Naters and Lager haven't forgotten where they came from. Not everyone can travel for their spiritual journey, and we desperately need to hear their stories. We need to know what radical forgiveness looks like, lest we think we don't need it. We need to know that God is moving and just, that he loves us, that he hasn't abandoned us. Phone home, you strange, foreign, Bible believers. Tell us more.
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For what it's worth, I've sat with him here. I sat with in him those comfortable street cafes in Western Europe, between classes or meetings or days off breathing second-hand smoke while nursing a Spanish coffee and the kind of book that melds mind and soul. I held his hand with a tiny band of praying Italians at a Pisa train station, at an Easter morning worship circle in Eastern Germany and with my own child in a church here in Plochingen. And for the many here who do not know him, who keep him at a comfortable distance, I've felt God's dancing love for them, his desire for reconciliation. May we, to quote the old prayer, see Christ more clearly, love him more dearly and follow him more nearly, wherever our journey takes us.

Nones and Lovers

I've been wanting to write about Eric Weiner's New York Times column on Americans and God since it came out in December, but I've been busy doing other things, like trying to work for a living and thinking up warm-weather holiday songs. And the truth is, I wanted to give it some thought, because I think it's worth responding to as a Christian. Weiner represents a form of non-belief that is probably more prevalent than the faith of convinced atheism. He's undecided, a self-described "None." What's a None? Well, here:

We Nones may not believe in God, but we hope to one day. We have a dog in this hunt. Nones don’t get hung up on whether a religion is “true” or not, and instead subscribe to William James’s maxim that “truth is what works.” If a certain spiritual practice makes us better people — more loving, less angry — then it is necessarily good, and by extension “true.” (We believe that G. K. Chesterton got it right when he said: “It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.”) 

I suspect that Nones number even more than the increasing number of people who check "none" on the surveys. I bet that many who cross "Catholic" or "Protestant" or "Muslim" or whatever belief are practical Nones, the cultural inheritors of a religious faith without significant bearing on their thoughts, decisions or prayers.

Weiner's "Noneness" is more nuanced than the None who just hasn't thought much about the afterlife between work and family and recreation. After a "health scare", this "rationalist" began to explore faith. In doing so, he went on a literal spiritual journey, traveling the world to sample the varieties of religious experience, which he chronicled in his book Man Seeks God: My Flirtation with the Divine. At this point, I should make clear that I haven't read Weiner's book, and answers to the questions and criticisms  I'm about to write may be found there. Nevertheless, his Times column has made a statement about the Nones' view of religion in America, and it's worth addressing.

For starters, let me say "amen" to the None's strong discomfort with the cross-pollination of piety and politics. While there have been times when the church should have done much more (I don't think Weiner would argue with Dr. King here), and I've wrote here before how unimpressed I was by large Christian gatherings using lots of (self-serving?) superlatives in their marketing. It's the sort of thing that would have made me want to clutch Noneness like a life-preserver had I not already been spoken for.

Weiner himself thinks humor is important, and I agree with him (note my heading). He thinks that "precious few of our religious leaders laugh. They shout." Yes, I hear them shouting too. I hear them shouting every time CNN talks to the latest loudmouth to draw a crowd or some doomsday prophet gets much more media attention than they deserve. But I can testify that while every church will have its sour-faced mice, much laughter can be heard between the pews. I grew up in a laughing family, surrounding by laughing people, and all of them thought you could know the Lord personally and would be happy to talk about it. We Christians run the whole gamut of emotions if you take the time to get to know us. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and disagree with Weiner's Chesterton quote: "It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it." Well, every religion can be joked about, and the best jokes come from within the ranks. Rather, it is the individual's jokes that are the test of his own character. Are they capable of joking? And when they do, is it in the right time and place for the best effect? Or are their jokes there for reasons of poison, to prey on the innocent and to build themselves up at others' expense? As some religious guy wrote somewhere, for everything there is a season. If you're a None genuinely seeking God and you visit a church that seems incapable of humor (and I've been there), give it one more week to make sure that your perceptions aren't clouded by a bias against the kind of people who show up there every Sunday (I have to watch myself there too). But once it's proven that the jokes are either unavailable or inappropriate, run (don't walk) to the exit. Bad humor's a good reason to find another church, but it's be a poor reason to try and put distance between yourself and God.

If Weiner has distance between himself and God, humorless blowhards have contributed to it. He needs a new kind of religious leader. He writes:

The answer, I think, lies in the sort of entrepreneurial spirit that has long defined America, including religious America. 

We need a Steve Jobs of religion. Someone (or ones) who can invent not a new religion but, rather, a new way of being religious. Like Mr. Jobs’s creations, this new way would be straightforward and unencumbered and absolutely intuitive. Most important, it would be highly interactive. I imagine a religious space that celebrates doubt, encourages experimentation and allows one to utter the word God without embarrassment. A religious operating system for the Nones among us. And for all of us.

A Steve Jobs' of religion... sounds nice doesn't it? It sounded nice to me until I began to unpack the analogy. I'm a fan of Apple products, and I am using one to write this blog post. But as sleek, hip and user-friendly as they are, they aren't for everyone, as Microsoft's "I'm a PC" commercial slyly picked up on. Weiner's religious space wouldn't be something for all of us. It would be one more niche in a crowded market. Furthermore, high-technology is effective to the point that it is individualized, that I can sit alone in my computer which is my own electronic kingdom, filled with my apps and my favorites and my bookmarks and social networking sites where I can pay attention and ignore people at my own leisure without fear of boredom, pain or small talk. It's straightforward, unencumbered, intuitive and interactive because it's mine, made in my image and serving my purposes and, for the small price of targeted advertisement, I can be as spiritual and unspiritual as I want, I can experiment, celebrate my doubt or my faith with no book or leader to tell me that I might be in any way off base (and if they do, I can simply delete their comment). I can utter whatever the hell I want, because as far as I'm concerned, I'm alone.

Christianity, to my daily dismay and glory, has a different user experience. It involves other people. I go into a church and I sing songs and say prayers and listen to words with all sorts of people. People with the wrong politics, the wrong interpretations, the wrong family traditions, the wrong styles, the wrong jokes. Their flawed behavior is rarely intuitive and often encumbers me. It's interactive, alright, but the interaction involves me putting aside my desires and agendas to meet other people where they are. It can be very tedious and often takes years to fully feel like part of a Fellowship (and having recently moved, I'm feeling these bruises once again), but it is well worth it. To sing and pray together with someone else in the presence of Almighty God... to have actually done that makes it worth it to come back and drink from the fountain, again and again. Weiner contrasts the private and public nature of religion, but his conclusions are too individualistic. Spirituality is private and public, yes, but knowing God is a communal experience - it's community with Him and with everyone else who has taken the plunge. It's there that we "become more loving" and experience "human grace."

I sympathize with the Nones' desire to remain outside all of this. I sympathize, because I detect something in them that I know in myself: a fear of commitment. Let me explain by way of politics. I confess that I find it difficult to commit to a particular political viewpoint. While living in Washington, I knew people who delighted in this commitment. They had strong politics, and they could argue them so well that I would be convinced until I talked with my next friend who had a different view. Everyone was right, and they could prove it. Moreover, the incivility and ill-humor of our political leaders and the media's appetite for scandal and provocation makes me feel about politics the same way Weiner feels about religion. But at the end of the day, I have to vote. I have to check the box next to the candidate I think is best and which statue or bill sounds the most reasonable. If I don't participate, my voice is completely marginalized and I miss out on the privileges of representative democracy.

Much like politics, religions have their loud blowhards and people who take what I feel is an uncomfortable delight in having strong opinions. But the responsibility for my participation does not rest on them - it rests on me. Commitment to God is less like buying an iPad and more like getting married. It's all encompassing, and we don't get to sever our ties when confronted with suffering, discomfort, other people or the fact that it's often us that needs changing. But the reward, and Christianity's key selling point, if you will, is love. Indeed, the Bible says that God himself is love and that all of God's law is summed up in loving God and loving each other. We're invited into this love through an act of love. Jesus died on a cross 2000 years ago that we may experience God's love through communion and fellowship with him, even when we're humorless blowhards with bad politics. The question then, is not whether we have the right operating system. It's whether we embrace Love or none.

Notes on a Funeral

1. The Deceased

On December 30th at the age of 90, Oma Lore died. My wife's grandmother was the last remaining on either side of the family. Here is what I wrote about her in an email informing my parents' of this significant event.

I wanted to let you know that [my wife's] grandmother (and [my daughter']s Uroma) went to be with the Lord last night. She passed away in the apartment below us while we were fast asleep after our weary travels. She leaves a big hole in all of our lives - she always reminded me of our Granny, sweet and devout, someone who allowed Christianity to work in her heart her entire life so that she truly loved and treated people well, even as she didn't now who they were. This morning, her nurse (who, not knowing the news, came for her usual visit) told [my father-in-law] that she was one of her favorite patients - a breath of fresh air after treating so many people who spend their last moments bitter and resentful. I'll especially remember her for the pure delight with which she received [my daughter]. The two of them were good friends (and sometimes partners in crime when it came to sneaking chips and sweets). She rarely remembered me, but she always remembered [my daughter], and [my daughter] was always happy to see her. At breakfast this morning, I told her that Uroma is "away" and is now with Jesus. I'm not sure how much she understands, but between the emotion that fogged the room and the all the jetlag, she's been both clingy and especially sweet. 

There's sadness, but there's relief and joy in her parting. She was in a lot of pain, and she had often said that she wanted to go home. We had a sense that she was simply waiting for it to end. [My father-in-law] and his sister gave her so much love at the end of her life, taking turns caring for her that she never needed to be sent to a home and making good use of the flexibility both of them have. That being said, I'm also happy for them that this work is complete. She was, of course, a quiet housemate (and she was old enough that she couldn't hear our music or baby crying or whatever), but we would hear her praying every night.  While age had broken down most of her faculties, she never lost the ability to pray. Every night, she would sit in her bed and talk to Jesus, blissfully unashamed that her neighbors could hear her. Now, just like Mary, the sister of Martha, she's sitting at his feet.

She is on the tail-end of the war generation. The scars of the Third Reich and World War II can still be seen and felt in Germany, but those who have lived through it are becoming fewer in number. One of those scars was on her husbands' eyes. He was just twenty when he was called to defend Germany in 1945, and combat with the Allies cost him his eyesight, bringing him into the community of the Kriegsblinde, war blind. Oma Lore was the nurse who would escort him home from the center where he learned to function. He loved her, and was delighted to learn that they were from the same town. His first marriage proposal was rejected, because she was not sure if he was strong enough in his Christian faith. When my family talks about him, he reminds me of GK Chesterton's thankfulness and wonder. Blindness from a war that wasn't his idea to begin with (and killed some family members) could have embittered him, and everyone would have understood. But he remained thankful for life, working as a masseur, growing his garden, reading Tolstoy and searching for wonder (my wife said he was always great for conversation). He's a model to me, the blogwriter who can dwell on failures, bad decisions and bitter pills. Perhaps that's what convinced Oma Lore to become a blind man's wife. Now both of them stand before the Lord in a place with no war or blindness. Their bodies healed.

2. The Organ

I don't get to traditional churches that often - you know, the ones in the middle of most European towns and in American towns in Norman Rockwell paintings with huge, beautiful towers (we go to a more modern church), but the organ and organist at St. Blasius's in Plochingen are lovely. C.S. Lewis, who cut his teeth on Wagner and classical Greek poetry,  had a bias against organ music and hymns, but my tastes are simple enough to delight in the beautiful sounds which played Oma Lore's favorite hymns to bring comfort to my family. In fact, as someone who plays a mere guitar for church, I was a bit envious that one man could make so many sounds and combine them so beautifully. With almost every other instrument, you need the support of others to reach those deep basses and soaring trebles of competing volumes. One organist, his arms, legs, feet and fingers dancing effortlessly across the great machine, filled the church with the sounds of an entire orchestra.

3. The Sermon

The pastor told Oma Lore's story from her perspective (think what I wrote in the email, but as if he were channeling her to tell it in sort of a spoken-word poetry). It wasn't a theological treatise (though I enjoy those on any occasion) nor was it an old time religion alter call (here I'm less of a fan), but her life was a Gospel message. The pastor knew that by simply echoing her years, he was casting seeds at the hearts of all of us in the pews, shivering in the January cold between pieces of art. I hope we listen.

4. The Cemetery

The Cemetery at St. Blasius's is a beautiful record of history of this town. So many names marked, memorials to the war dead to a classmate of my wife's who lost her life to a car accident a long time ago. Oma Lore's family grave is on the front row, right next to the path. But in one of her later acts of charity, she asked that she and her husband be buried a few rows back. Why? Well, the Germans are very good at tending their graves, and there's a special pressure to keep the tombs on the front row spic and span. She felt that pressure herself with the family grave and didn't want to extend it to her descendents. Of course, given her love for everyone and their love for her, not to mention her husband, I trust that this site will remain well-visited and well-flowered.

We lined up in the rain a few rows back. There was a funny moment when the wind turned my large, red umbrella inside out. Everyone else stood in line and waited to scoop dirt into the grave while I hopped around like Charlie Chaplin trying set things right. Though if I made a scene, no one behind me was in the mood to comment on it. I was in the front of the line, because I married into it. There were plenty of people behind me who knew Oma Lore better than I did. One of the mysteries of marriage is that it's a mystic bond, not just to one person, but to her family as well. My umbrella, properly scolded, was now in place and I leaned against my wife as she, with a beautiful expression (this was a sort of sadness that shown through as beauty) dropped her flower into the hole in the ground.

5. Coffee and Cake

After the ceremony and burial, the family and the guests met at a local restaurant for traditional coffee and cake. This included delicious buttered pretzels and yeast buns with raisins. My 2-year-old daughter, who took her nap during the ceremony, rejoined us. After devouring rolls and pretzels (please, please don't give her coffee!!! I don't think anyone did...) she ran around the restaurant. I followed her, watchfully. Once again, I told her that Uroma was with Jesus. It's still hard to tell if she notices the loss of her good friend, the one who would sneak her potato chips while her health-conscience parents weren't looking, the one who she last saw being carried out of the house by medics. She ran around the restaurant like she would run Oma Lore's apartment, delighting in good food and the attention from older relatives. Having already been through a huge move and a couple of long family visits, she is indeed aware that large parts of her life (like the American side of the family) are not here, but they are elsewhere and can be seen in pictures and skype conversations. At the restaurant, she tested the different steps and doors and tried to sneak into the kitchen. How does a two-year-old feel the absence caused by another kind of distance? The mood at the restaurant was light, all things considered. This was not the funeral of a life cut short, but of a life well lived and loved.

6. Should we mourn?

Sometimes, we Christians become concerned when we find ourselves doing something natural. Often, it's in our pleasure - can we enjoy good food and drink, for example? (Yes, if we do so well) But there's also the question if we should mourn at a funeral. There was a charismatic guy at our high school who would lead prayer meetings at the flagpole. He once said he wanted his funeral to be a big, wild party (and presumably, no frowns). Then he would go on to prophecy about his future children. Less flamboyantly, Oma Lore herself once told my wife not to cry at her funeral. She would be in a better place, and I believe that she is. I wonder if, on her last day, Oma Lore saw a vision of Jesus, scars and all, telling her, "today you will be with me in paradise." 

But mourning has precedent. We know it does, and we ache with the loss of people we know and even some of those we don't know. In the Bible, Paul writes to the Philippians that had his friend Epaphroditus not survived his horrible illness, he would have experienced "sorrow upon sorrow." Jesus himself wept at the funeral of a man he would call back to life only moments later. (C.S. Lewis beautifully pictures this at the end of The Silver Chair in the Narnia series, with the lion/Christ-figure Aslan crying over the death of King Caspian. I wanted to quote it, but it seems my copy of the book is on a different continent.) Death is a final reminder what the fall hath wrought, that this world, full of sin and separation from God, is not as it should be. Death reminds us that it took a death to be reconciled to God, and though death is defeated, though Paul mocks it by asking, "where, o death is your sting?" we cannot help but be sad. There is nothing contradictory in a crying Christian, but our tears lead us to our Comforter. A Christian funeral is a bitter drink of mourning and hope, of sorrow and joy, of cross and Resurrection. We cry, yes, we mourn deeply (it's ok to!), but we are comforted.

The Death of Someone Who Cared

In 1998, I spent a month in Bologna, Italy with Agape Europe, a Christian student group. When I shared this with an Italian friend a few months ago, she was surprised. The University of Bologna, she told me, had a reputation as a Communist stronghold and many there were decidedly anti-Christian. At the time, I was naive about the reputation and no one reacted to our message with hostility. But if I had known, it would not have discouraged me - quite the opposite, actually. Not because I enjoy antagonism - I'm the type of sensitive soul who wants everyone to play nice. But some things are important, and I'd rather discuss important matters with someone who passionately disagrees with me than with someone who just doesn't care.

Perhaps that's one reason why Christopher Hitchens' columns in Slate and Vanity Fair were appointment reading for me (the other two reasons are both his informed opinions on pretty much everything and the quality of his prose, agree or disagree), and it's why I join everyone who marks his death with sadness. It seems like every scribbler in the business has written an obituary of sorts (many of them are quite moving), but Michael Gerson of the Washington Post best expresses my thoughts as a believer:

(Hitchens) recognized that there is one argument worth having about religion: Is it true or false? The rest is sociology. Hitchens thought religion to be false and dangerous, but not trivial. This may help to explain the affinity of many believers for the world’s most articulate unbeliever. Hitchens took the largest questions seriously.

I find having a strong antithesis to my own views energizing. They force me to examine and explain, not in the face of a tract or a political advertisement, much less in the face of emotional pressure, but in the face of an intelligent person who has purposefully and thoughtfully rejected my worldview (I've even used this space to exercise a response to one of Hitchens' essays). And if we really believe in truth, in Ultimate Truth, then we have nothing to fear from this. The truth is our friend, my father likes to say. This isn't to say the world of apologetics isn't dangerous. It has teeth, and it's best to go in well-armed and well-education, in community and  in prayer. But if apologetics is dangerous, apathy is deadly. If Hitchens' polemics has caused more people to consider Ultimate Reality, then for that, we can raise our hats in appreciation. 

Praising the King

History is littered with gruesome tyrants and horrible monarchs. Gaddafi is the latest to be properly knocked off his throne, and reports of a mass grave discovered by Libyan rebels are just more reminders of what happens when a human claims god-like authority. I come from a country founded on enlightened, anti-monarchist principles, and within that country, I was born (and recently left) a state whose flag features Lady Liberty standing victorious over the Tyrant. Anti-authoritarian sentiments are, for obvious and very good reasons, particularly strong here in Germany. Thus, for Christians who wish to proclaim the Gospel in this part of the world, there is an understandable tendency to downplay the monarchical language in the Bible. For example, the Gute Nachricht ("Good News") translation of the Bible shows Jesus proclaiming "God's New World" instead of "the Kingdom of Heaven."

Worship leader Albert Frey has a different idea. On my desk, I have his 2006 album, provocatively titled Fuer den Koenig, or "For the King." Perhaps more provocatively, the cover is a picture of a sword that reminds me of the sword Gandalf hands to King Theoden in the film, The Two Towers. It's not aggressive - the sword lies chivalrous and downward facing on a scarlet cushion. If this strikes you as offensive or corny, at least take a moment to consider the album's liner notes. Frey was inspired to study in depth the kingly language in the Bible after researching the Middle Ages. This prompted the songs and the album, but he is not callous to recent history. He writes (and the following is my hasty translation of the album's liner notes. I'm aiming for accuracy, so if it sounds clumsy, believe me when I say it sounds better in German):

"It is sometimes asserted that we German speakers find approaching the kingly side of God difficult, because we have not had a monarchy for a long time and have bad experiences with authority sitting deep in our collective conscience. We honor neither stars nor politicians nor saints as much other peoples."

All true, and maybe even too understated. But instead of retreating, watch what Frey does. His response is to turn it on his head.

"It is my opinion, however, that our skepticism can also help us with our search for true worship, because we are less likely to be bedazzled by mere human glamor. For us, it is fully clear that no human being can totally embody the ideal of the King."

Where others see a barrier, Frey sees an opportunity. He goes on to take it home:

"But in spite of this, we naturally have the Sehnsucht for a good authority, for a power who does not abuse, but rather acts in love. And this Sehnsucht compels us to the throne of God. More than any of the old stories, from King Arthur to The Lord of the Rings, we find Jesus, truly, as the Good King, even when we find him, apparently powerless before Pilate, answering 'you said it, I am a King'... He is the true King. When we worship him - and that's the point of the songs on this CD - we are put right with a natural order, in spirit, in the invisible world as much as the inner world of our souls. When we proclaim who He is, we happen upon who we are: the daughters and sons of the King, people with worth and power to reorder our lives and fight for his Kingdom."

This isn't all macho knight stuff, though.

"The personal side of this good authority is the Father. God is also a loving Father, and that is also the theme of some of the songs. We need both of these moments so much: before the Throne of the King and in the arms of the loving Father. God claims us as Father and he claims us as King."

One of the reasons Albert Frey is my favorite worship leader in any language is that his songs effortlessly and without pretension weave together all the emotions of Christianity. Fuer den Koenig is one of the best examples of his work. Frey leads us to celebrate the majesty of the King and the intimate love of the Father. The listener, the worshiper, mourns, celebrates, proclaims and stands in awe.

If you understand German, buy it. And if you remain skeptical, give it a shot, anyway. Cast aside our human failure to live up to the King, from evil tyrants to Hollywood kitsch. You might find the True King, and in finding him, as Frey points out, we find our worth as well.

Do Not Hinder Them

We ran some errands in downtown Plochingen today. We walked downtown – the weather was too beautiful not to do so. The sun, already autumn gold, warmed the ever-enchanting view of my wife and daughter ahead of me on the sidewalks. They looked like icons from an ancient Eastern Church.

After a few checks off the to-do list, our company parted. My wife would run to the little discount grocery store to buy a Knoedel for today’s lunch, and my daughter and I would stay in Plochingen’s pedestrian zone. The plan was to free my daughter from the confines of her stroller and let her little legs run up and down the street, as she had done in the past. But she wanted to go somewhere else. “Jesus!” she cried, pointing at the downtown chapel.

We were at the chapel the Sunday before. There was a children’s church service put on by the Protestant church. They sang wonderful little songs and learned about how, when Jesus was twelve, he stayed at his Father’s house. There were paintings of Jesus on the wall, medieval-style sketches from his life and death and life. At the front, like so many other European churches, there’s a statue of Jesus on the cross. (The comic highlight of the morning was when she pointed out that the Crucified One was “naked.”)

“Jesus!” she said again, matter-of-factly, still pointing at the chapel. At first I did not want to go in. Why go into a stuffy room with Europeanized Jesus pictures when we could still enjoy Germany’s September sun? “Jesus!” she insisted. Nervously, I looked at the stern sign on the chapel door warning people to be quiet and reverential while in the building. “Jesus!” she said. Then I remembered something Jesus himself once said: “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them.” I opened the door and we went in.

My daughter pointed to one of the paintings. “Jesus!” she said again. This time she was not insisting but acknowledging. She hurried down the center aisle to the statue of Jesus on the cross. “Jesus!” she said. “Cross!” she said, pointing. I had never heard her say the word “cross” before. My daughter excels at pointing and acknowledging. Perhaps, in this case, it was her own way of worshiping.

In some ways, I find it strange that a child finds Jesus so interesting. When I was a child, I knew Jesus was good, but I had to grow into him. I preferred more adventurous Sunday school stories, like David fighting a giant or Samson’s action-hero invincibility. It was only later that I realized how Jesus, in his ministry of reconciliation, was so much stronger than either. I don’t know if my daughter’s child-wisdom will remain. Maybe, with age and other distractions, her interests will go elsewhere.

What I do know is that one of my responsibilities as a father is to show Jesus to her - to tell her about Him and to teach her what he said. I am to model Jesus for her. For this task, I am insufficient; we both need grace. One day, she will decide for herself if she will live up to her Baptism, if she will live up to this moment in Plochingen’s downtown chapel, if she will abide in Jesus and participate in his ministry of reconciliation. One more thing I know: if she is truly interested in Jesus, at any point, the worst thing I could possibly do is hinder her.

Theology, Sensibility and Meeting John Stott

My one visit to London (so far) was to tag along with my father on a conference for the evangelistic organization now known as Cru (though it was and still is called Agape in the UK). Dad worked for Agape/Cru, but he was also studying for the pastorate at Reformed Theological Seminary in Orlando, Florida. Thus, he was excited to take his oily 16-year-old son and his cute 12-year-old daughter to a church called All Souls, where their pastor emeritus, John Stott, was scheduled to preach.

I found the music a bit stodgy and the building beautiful, but it was the white-haired pastor-theologian successfully captured the attention of my teenage self. I confess, I am fuzzy on the details, points and applications, but his sermon showed me something: the possibility of confronting a miraculous, challenging and all around chewy corner of scripture and remaining human, sensible and pastoral, intelligently and graciously leading the listeners back to God. This was the point all along. He preached on the mysterious prophecies in the book of Daniel, a book that I had rarely heard covered, save the felt sunday school story boards about the Lion's Den. I had also been to excitable conferences on biblical prophecy that seemed to lead more to culture war than to knowing and loving God (my youth pastor at the time offered some helpful correctives). He had the gift to combine wit and grace, and in that he parsed other interpretations, offered his own and pointed to the hope of the Gospel.

I now own a couple of John Stott's commentaries and have used others to for personal and communal Bible study. He is, in many respects, a reliable theologian of first resort whenever I need a better understanding of any part of scripture. But his gracious and reasonable presence that Sunday in London impacted me more. This attitude has been particularly helpful when faced with difficult questions from non-Christians; when I'm at my best, I imitate it (not always the case, sadly).

John Stott died today. His hope his seen, his faith is realized and, with Christ Jesus in paradise, his love is complete. His impact on the church can't be understated, nor his impact on the clergy who follow in his footsteps (see this moving post from one of the pastors at my old church in Washington), my father included. That day, he rallied us to have a picture taken with wise pastor, who graciously conceded. The picture is one of Dad's treasures. He often reminds me that there's a picture of me with John Stott. I consider it an act of God's grace that I met him and heard him that day.

Would You Believe Him If He Told You?

I once met a man who saw Jesus in a vision. Let me explain.

Some years ago, I took a weeks vacation to Istanbul with a group of friends. The Turks are always hospitable, but the tourism industry was especially happy to see us. First, the weather was cold and snowy, which is not something we associate with onion-domed mosques and Ottoman palaces. Second, most tourists were doubly scared because of a terrorist attack on Istanbul just two weeks earlier. Needless to say, my group of friends plus one lusty Australian backpacker were the only lodgers at our youth hostel.

The youth hostel itself had seen better days, not just from the weather or the bombing, but 9/11 had hurt the tourist industry worldwide. They had failed to pay their taxes, so the government had sealed their front door shut. However, the hostel owners were chummy with the man who ran a dry-cleaners downstairs in the basement of the same building. To get into the Youth Hostel, we had to walk, almost crawl, through the dry cleaners between rows of hanging coats and white walls and climb a stair case into the comfortable lodging, presumably helping our new, grateful friends to stick it to the man.

The youth hostel owners were a group of five or six men. Actually, I don't know how many of them worked with the youth hostel and how many of them were just friends there to hang out. I did know that they sat in the lobby, ate delicious Turkish food and drank Vodka and water and gave us Turkish beer to drink. Istanbul was a great city, but hanging out with these guys each evening was a highlight of the trip.

I know that the youngest of the group did help manage the hostel. He was particularly suave and handsome, and charming as he was, he was the first to offer me a beer and a bowl of the most delicious lentil soup. When he found out that we were Christians, and that we were working in Christian ministry, he began to talk with me about Jesus. He told me how Jesus appeared to him in a dream.

You see, during his stint in the army, he fought Kurdish separatists in southeastern Turkey. He had seen death and explosions, and he feared for his own life. Every night, before we went to sleep, he pleaded with Allah and Mohammad to let him live, but he found no comfort. Finally, in a dream, he saw a man he had not seen before, beckoning him to follow. He knew exactly who it was. It was Jesus, and from then on, he prayed for Jesus to save his life. He finished his military mission unharmed. Since then, he always talked to travelers about Jesus, and my friends and I were not the first Christians who had passed through. Smiling, he showed me his plastic bag full of Gideon Bibles and evangelistic tracts.

I'm told it is not an unusual experience for people in the Muslim world to have visions of Jesus. Personally, I know one other Turk who repented and believed after seeing Jesus in a dream. The difference between him and the handsome youth hostel manager is that the manager did not repent.

You see, beside his Gideon Bibles, he had another collection: girlfriends. His suave good looks and his position managing a youth hostel allowed him to collect girls from all over Europe. He showed me his photo album. A girl from Finland, one from France, one from Germany - they all could have been Bond girls. He knew this was sin. The reason he approached me about Jesus was, like a lawyer reading a contract, he wanted to find a way to be a Christian and continue his conquests. "Can I still be a Christian and have the sex?" was how he put it. I told him God's grace was free, that this sin would not prevent God's love. I told him to commit himself to Christ, and to trust him with the rest. I told him that to repent from his sin, he would need to be willing give up that part of his lifestyle. I told him it would be impossible on his own, but with God, with the support of other Christians, he could. I told him if he would contact me, I would do some research and find a good church for him. I wanted to tell him about God's design for sex. I never heard from him.

Last Sunday, my pastor highlighted Jesus' response to the question from the religious authorities, "are you the Messiah?" in Luke's Passion. Jesus replied, "If I tell you, you will not believe me." In other parts of the Gospels, different people ask Jesus for signs, and he rarely concedes. Why? There's a skeptic in me that wonders why Jesus doesn't simply do something wonderful and magical to silence his critics once and for all, as if the Resurrection was not enough. The Turkish hostel manager is a good example for me as to how signs and wonders are insufficient for true faith.

Think about it. He was utterly convinced that he saw Jesus in a dream, beckoning him. He knew for certain that it was Jesus, not skill, luck or circumstance, that preserved his life in combat. Yet, he refused to follow. He did not trust God for the intimacy and satisfaction that he found having sex with pretty backpackers.

Would you believe Jesus if he told you who he was? Messiah. Savior. Son of God. God's Word made flesh. All in all. All that you need, all that you want, beyond anything we ask or imagine. Would you believe him if you saw him resurrected? Would you believe him if you witnessed miracles?

I'd like to say yes, but I'm not sure that would have done it for me either. What did it for me was love. What did it for me was that, whenever I saw myself, I saw something unlovely. But I learned that, as Zephaniah prophesied, God is with us. He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in us. He will quiet us with his love. He rejoices over us with singing. In our unbelief, when we refused to acknowledge God, whether we experience him through word, creation or miracle, he died for us. He rose again, all that he could be with us. He calls us, and whether we see him in a dream or not, he beckons us to follow him.

I hope something finally clicked for the Turkish hostel manager. I don't know if it would have been the message of love - I heard somewhere that "God loves you" isn't the best place to begin with someone from a Muslim background. Clearly, miracles were not enough for him. I hope he repents, and I hope he believes, that he may follow Jesus in life, in death, and, as we celebrate every Easter, in Resurrection.

Humanity Does Its Worst

Roger Cohen's anger is righteous. Any reasonable person should be angry. A buffoon of a cleric apparently burns a Koran in Gainesville, enraged Islamists react with murders, which their leaders fail to condemn. Jones' demonstration of what the Apostle Paul calls zeal without knowledge would have been more compelling if he himself were walking the streets Mazar-i-Sharif. As it is, his violation of another Pauline admonition ("to make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be Holy," as Adam points out) made unwitting martyrs out of UN staff in the same city. Of course, no act of buffoonery or provocation can justify cold-blooded murder, and if Cohen is right that Islamic leaders have failed to make unqualified condemnations, it is all the more despicable.

Here is Cohen's conclusion:

"This column is full of anger, I know. It has no heroes. I’m full of disgust, writing after a weekend when religious violence returned to Northern Ireland with the murder of a 25-year-old Catholic policeman, Ronan Kerr, by dissident republican terrorists. Religion has much to answer for, in Gainesville and Mazar and Omagh.

I see why lots of people turn to religion — fear of death, ordering principle in a mysterious universe, refuge from pain, even revelation. But surely it’s meaningless without mercy and forgiveness, and surely its very antithesis must be hatred and murder. At least that’s how it appears to a nonbeliever."

Indeed. But I think Cohen has the wrong culprit. Much violence has been committed in the name of religion. But much has also been committed in the name of politics, and people like Cohen certainly don't avoid that. Much has been committed in the name of tribalism. And much has been committed for reasons purely personal. Self-serving buffoonery and bloody revenge, as inhumane is they are, are human characteristics. Religion is at its worst when it channels and institutionalizes these characteristics. The same can be said for political or tribal activity.

Now, I can't speak for another religion, but Christianity agrees that religion is meaningless without mercy and forgiveness, the antithesis of hatred and murder. That's why Paul preaches against zeal without knowledge. That's why Jesus commands us to love our enemies and do good to those who persecute us.

"Religion" has as much to answer for as politics, tribalism, passion and so many other isms. The answers Cohen seeks actually belong to the perpetrators themselves. In fact, Cohen's longing for an answer, for justice, is a better reason than any on his list why "lots of people" (historically, the overwhelming majority of the human race) turn to religion. Jones, along with every terrorist and inquisitor, will one day give an account to God himself, who is far more offended, hurt and angry at murder than we are.

Unfortunately, the desire for justice, right at it is, will lead to a mirror. In The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis writes that the essential question of hell is not about Hitler, Nero or Judas Iscariot (here he could add today's religious terrorists), but about you and me. On that same note, Paul reminds us (I say remind, because if we're honest, we know) that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." We all will have to give account to God some day. Thankfully, Paul's sentence does not end there. He continues "...and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus."

That's the best reason for turning. Not turning to religion, which anyone can use or manipulate. It's turning to Jesus Himself. God's own Word, made flesh, took on God's wrath, offering us mercy and forgiveness. We humans have a lot to answer for, and in Jesus, we find the answer we need.

The Old Yellow Booklet

One of my roommates commended to me an Austin Farrer sermon called "The Old Rosewood Desk." In thinking about his old desk full of youthful treasures, the Oxford pastor, theologian and friend of famous Christians like C.S. Lewis, he reflects on childhood statements of faith, such as a confirmation certificate. Through this, he reminds those of us who have turned to Christ, however, long ago, that a constant factor in our ever-changing lives is fidelity: Our own fidelity to God and God's fidelity to us. The former only being possible through the ladder.

In sum, preaches Farrer:

"Man, knowing that without faithfulness he cannot be anything, looks for a loyalty to which his whole existence, and not part of it only, can be pledged. And who deserves this measureless, this all-embracing faithfulness, except the faithful God? Those childish undertakings, those writings on cards, confirmation professions, have grown dim and somewhat unreal. It is now that we must make up our minds, and pledge our obedience to the faithfulness of God. If we do so, we shall bring our former resolves to life by our new decisions. We shall, indeed, bring to life something older than our youthful resolutions - that is, the grace of our baptism, when the resolution was not yet ours, but our parents'; and we shall bring to life something older even than our baptism - Christ's will for our salvation when he died on the cross; and older than that, the everlating faithfulness of god on which the world was built.

Religion is not self-improvement, or decent conduct or emotional worship. Religion is fidelity. 'Promise unto the Lord your God and keep it,' says the psalm. But the fidelity which is the soul of religion is not our fidelity, it is God's. We give ourselves to him in no reliance on our own trustworthiness. Experience has taught us what we are. Our Confidence is that god's faithfulness will prevail over our faithlessness, that he will recall us, that he will not let us go."

It is appropriate that I quote and write on my mother's birthday. I believe I was five years old when I made a childish promise of my own. When I write "childish", I don't mean in a negative or demeaning sense, but I use the word because I was a child when I made the promise. We lived in a Richmond, Virginia townhouse that had a counter that separated the small kitchen from a carpeted dining room. I sat on one of the three comfortably-padded bar stools on the dining room side, and my mother stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with her elbows.

It was there that she shared the Gospel with me. Her tool was the Four Spiritual Laws booklet, designed and used by CCCI, the large para-church organization my parents worked for (and for which I would later work in Germany and New Orleans). If memory serves me, it was the classic mustard-yellow booklet that probably looked cool in the mid-eighties. The color, judging by a pair of pants my middle sister owns, seems to be making a comeback.

It's a simple Gospel presentation - God's love, plan and purpose; our sin and separation; Jesus, the cross, the Resurrection, the way; our repentance. And a few thoughts on what to do next, including further reflection and finding a church. My little mind, in some way, understood enough of this to claim commitment to Jesus Christ as the only hope of my salvation, conduced by a loving mother and a Little Yellow booklet.

I echo Farrer. However much I change, however much I seek to define myself, however much changes of countries, cities, technologies, jobs, churches and friends will alter my malleable body, mind and soul, fidelity remains something constant. This is not because I am good and being faithful. Whenever I stand in my church and confess the Creeds, I am not touting my ability to be true to the three-personal God it affirms. Rather, I am trusting in his fidelity, patient through the eons and the minutes.

It has not made my life easier or more successful. Indeed, I often wonder if I should have chosen more ambition instead of a sort of faithfulness. But to be the beneficiary of a love deep and divine beyond our understanding, to have a hope in a grand and renewed creation, to have genuine intimacy with creator and sustainer of all things, is worth more than anything else I've been offered.

In this post-modern world, fidelity to anything is viewed as suspect. This is for two reasons. From marriage to country to religion, human beings are historically bad at fidelity. I know a man who refuses to marry, because he does not have an example of a faithful marriage in his own family. Second, many who are good at fidelity are faithful to the wrong thing. A suicide-bomber is a hideous example of someone faithful to the end.

Fidelity to Jesus, as Farrer points out, relies on His fidelity, not ours, and in that we can have great comfort. Even better, we are faithful to Love and Justice, Grace and Holiness, God incarnate. We are right to suspect worldly fidelity, but God's fidelity leads to human flourishing. For these two reasons, if you have read this far and have not committed your life to Jesus, why not start now? My mother and the yellow booklet put me on this path. Join me.

Garden State Re-Viewed

Yesterday, my wife borrowed Garden State from the library. I had seen Zach Braff's 2004 movie a few years ago, but she had not seen it yet. Aside from being a film we'll one day show our kids when they ask us about hip, turn-of-the-century music, there was a point in the story that struck me as worth keeping. (mind the spoiler) At the end, the main character, Largeman (played by Braff) after kicking the emotion-numbing medication that he used for a decade and a half, realizes that he needs to figure himself out now that he can feel. He had returned home to New Jersey from LA for his mother's funeral. Now, armed with this new self-realization he acquired over his four day return, he boards the plane back to California. His new, life-to-the-fullest girlfriend (my favorite Natalie Portman role) begs him to stay, so that they can make the journey together. Before takeoff, he leaves the airplane and returns to her so they can do just that.

It's a good reminder that most of us need help in our journeys of redemption, and unadulterated individualism rarely works for this sort of thing. As I continue to point out, I've needed help in my journey, and really, that's ok. The better films of this decade have made the same point, of course.

A suggestion beyond Garden State would be to invite God into your journey as well. Whether intended or not, God's absence is deeply and sadly felt in the film, as the characters use legal and illegal drugs, sex, relationships, money, experience - each numbing themselves in their own way. Natalie Portman's character mentions nonchalantly that she doesn't really believe in God. Largeman himself insists that he's not really (as in religiously) Jewish and only goes to Temple on Yom Kippur.

If you find yourself with a sort of familiar ache for a home that no longer exists, which is something the characters talk about in one of the more reflective moments, then consider getting to know Jesus. When I know him, my life is as beautiful or tragic or mundane as anyone else's, but it's filled with something more than can't be replicated. He offers life, and everything that comes with it, only more so.

Meanwhile, if you have not seen Garden State, or have not seen it in awhile, go to your local library and borrow it for the evening. Well worth it.

Searching for David

Last weekend's "Restoring Honor to America" rally, sponsored by Glenn Beck to promote his brand of faith, hope and charity continued a train of thought I've had for awhile now. What first made me want to blog about it (by which I mean the train of thought, not the rally) was Mel Gibson's bile-filled and inducing tirade, which we all learned about earlier in July.

You see, a few years ago, as he promoted The Passion of the Christ, he became the latest David for much of the Christian world. Like Israel's anointed king of old, he was our champion, casting rocks of truth at the cultural giants who have dominated for too long. I admit, with so many movies and plays about Jesus ranging in quality from poor to cheese, it was gratifying see a Jesus film of Hollywood quality craft - from acting to cinematography (the Aramaic/Latin was a nice touch too).

There was criticism, as you'll remember. The violence of torture and crucifixion was excruciating - an acquaintance called it "violence pornography." This didn't bother many of us - I've heard Good Friday lectures in which medical experts described, in graphic detail, the effects the process had on Jesus' body - every whip, nail and thorn. More to the point, each Sunday, I eat His flesh and drink His blood. Whenever the Lord's supper seems mundane in its familiar bread and wine, I remember the the expression a Chinese woman once made when I explained it to her. We both were in Germany at the time, and she knew nothing of Christianity, and her face contorted in surprise and disgust at such barbarism. Remembering the crucifixion, in all its barbarism, and the dark reality that it was in my place, remains a serious act of worship. Gibson may have taken it further than history or taste would have allowed (I do agree, he showed more than he needed to), but I wonder how many of these critics were so bothered by, say, Quentin Tarantino's flicks.

The more serious criticism was that of anti-semitism. I've never personally known a Christian who has promoted anti-semitism, and I was raised, along with many Christians, with a deep respect for Jewish people, not to mention a real awareness that all of our Biblical heroes were Abraham's descendants. However, many of us, myself included, were ignorant to the extent of which European passion-plays promoted anti-semitism, often to violent ends. Many Jews, of course, were not ignorant of this, and the Passion brought much darker collective memories.

Gibson, to defend his film, played the David, rallying conservatives and Christians alike to his cause. Friends of mine attended an event in his honor in Orlando, where local church leadership asked if they could pray and fast for him. Gibson, with a twinkle in his eye, jumped from his seat and said, "ok, nobody eat until the film comes out!" Whatever his original intentions, the Passion broke out into another culture-war battle, which only advantaged the film. Gibson was on the front line, a David on our behalf, throwing what we saw as stones, taking what we saw as slander.

Davids disappoint. Mel Gibson's marriage unraveled a couple years later, and gossip photos showed him drunk at parties with models in each arm. His inebriated, anti-semitic rant to police, seemed only to confirm the critics' view of his film. Then, to their delight, came the rant his second ex recorded this summer. Whether the tapes were fabricated, or whether he was just crazy, it put the nail in the coffin of his Hollywood career (so it seems), not to mention his role as anointed culture warrior.

Sounds familiar doesn't it? Actors, rock stars, presidents, prominent pastors - so many have been given the David mantle by excited evangelicals praying for the tide to turn. I've been caught up in it before, and I am not completely over the temptation not to get caught up again. I know I would hate to have that role myself - to have the hopes of Christians everywhere depend on my personality, decisions and ability not to sin. Of course, we know that the original David screwed up royally. (In fact, since he was king at the time, I wonder if that's where the phrase screwed up royally came from? Maybe the prophet Nathan coined it) This man after God's own heart committed adultery, covered it with murder, and set up a chain of events that led to bloody rebellion and civil war. He came through in the end, but what a cost.

David repented, privately and publicly. I hope that Mel Gibson will too, without the meddling of a PR team.

In the meantime, thousands of Americans marched on Washington this past weekend for an ecumenical church service of vague patriotic spirituality. Fortunately, this has caused some soul searching among Christians these days as many point out that whatever Glenn Beck is selling, it's not Christianity. But for others, he's wearing a heroes mantle, throwing rhetorical stones at perceived enemies, even as they throw back.

We look for heroes, but there is only one Anointed One who can bear that cross. We Christians, whether or not we stand in the light of cultural attention or political leadership, should honestly seek to emulate Him. Jesus is the hero of our story. Let's seek him first and stop searching for David.

10 More Books

Some prominent, professional bloggers have taken up David Frum's challenge to post ten books that have influenced their worldview. (I first found out about this reading Ross Douthat's list) The rules are to go with your gut feeling, and not necessarily mention your favorite books. As a non-prominent, non-professional who occasionally updates his blog (and who often fantasizes about prominence and professionalism), I am going to list mine. Fair warning: anyone reading this will probably be more edified going to the pages of these pros, and my books will be less wonkish by comparison, but for what it's worth (in no particular order):

1. The Bible - Jesus. Church. Holy Spirit. Make disciples. I know, forgive the pat Sunday-school answer. But I've truly found it worth believing. It is the one book I have read, in very small parts, nearly every day since I was fifteen. Different parts have meant more to me in different seasons - the Psalms, the Gospels, Romans and Philippians have all featured prominently, and I am, lazily but beneficially, reading through 1 Peter at the moment. Sermons preached directly from its pages have influenced me as much as any of these books. A list of books that influenced me without the Bible would be a dishonest list. When I read some of the "high points" - the Sermon on the Mount, John 14, Romans 8, Psalm 40, what can I say? If only it influenced me more.
2. I just took a break for thirty minutes to find a paper I wrote in college on the Cyprus conflict. I could not find it, but it sites a book whose approach to history and international conflict is better imprinted on my conscience more than the name of the book or the author. (I think the name was something like Cyprus: Island in the Sun, my Google-search was not fruitful either. I remember that the author was British. In any case...) One of the difficulties researching the Cyprus conflict was to find a book that was not clearly biased to either the Greek or the Turkish side. This particularly nuanced book was the only one I found that could effectively explain and analyze both sides. It encouraged or affirmed my mistrust sources who fail to understand their opponents point of view. This affects my faith, my politics and my philosophy of evangelism.
3. Les Miserables, Victor Hugo - It's a 1400 page Gospel Presentation. The first seventy pages describe the character of a priest who only figures briefly into the main plot, and is a wonderful celebration of a Christian. It is blissfully long-winded, purposely poetic and edifying to the last page. If you are only familiar with the film or the musical, let me just say that if you have read the book, they will both come across as superficial. It's pages brought grace, healing and wonder to me in Freiburg's dark, smoky cafes.
4. "The Weight of Glory," C.S. Lewis - Ok, it's a sermon, not a book. But I read it in a book, and, unfortuately, I did not hear him preach it in 1940s Oxford. This serious meditation on heaven is an argument for Christian hope, and as its final paragraphs demonstrate, why Christian hope, true Christian hope, does not keep our heads in the clouds, but propels us to love others. Lewis haunts me with the fact that there are "no ordinary people," that everyone we encounter is either "an immortal horror or an everlasting splendor." This weight, paints the way I ought to treat strangers, colleagues, friends and family (with God's help).
5. The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien - My first epic fantasy, I braved Middle Earth when I was thirteen. Deeper symbolism I did not grasp at the time, but often overlooked in this epic is the theme of the unlikely heroes. More than any battles of good v. evil, Gollum's complexity or Christian symbolism in resurrecting wizards or returning kings, the little Hobbits give us the idea that in our own journeys, we can make it, in spite of our inadequacies (with God's help).
6. The Accidental Detective Series, Sigmund Brouwer - While we're all the subject of books I read in Middle School, here is one (or, ok, a series) that actually was written for Middle Schoolers. I read through these books like kids today read through the Harry Potter series. It is certainly not high literature, nor high children's literature like the Chronicles of Narnia or the Wind in the Willows (both of which I better understood as an adult). It did, however, show normal Christian kids living in community with other normal Christian kids that had two very important things: fun and humor. The fact that Ricky Kidd and his friends got into extraordinary situations did not undermine this. In it's own way, they lived out what C.S. Lewis said about merriment in "The Weight of Glory": "We must play. But our merriment must be that kind (and in fact it is the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously." So many children in other Christian stories suffered through dry, stoic lessons that made Christian orthodoxy and morality seem insufferable. At the same time, many of my friends in Middle School played in ways that were cutting and vicious. Brouwer's thirteen-year-old heroes played and joked in the Lewis way, and that example made no small difference in my very young view of Christianity, community and friendship.
7. War and Peace, Tolstoy. I read that Virginia Woolf once commented that War and Peace is a story that leaves nothing out. I agree. Not a page is wasted, not a word is missing. Read it, if you have not. If you are intimidated by the book's length, read it anyway, because it is actually easy reading. The prose is gentle and does not confuse (unlike Dostoyevsky), and it is divided into easily-digestible chunks. Tolstoy simply understands the human nature of each of his characters, and this, in turn, has helped me understand my own.
8. The Divine Conspiracy, Dallas Willard. Though I was raised in a Christian home and went to Bible-preaching churches all my life, I had never really heard much teaching from the Synoptic Gospels, including the Sermon on the Mount (outside, of course, the Passion and Christmas stories). I had plenty of Paul and John, of course. The Divine Conspiracy was assigned reading before I went to Germany, and I devoured every word of it. It taught me to understand and appreciate and truly believe the Sermon on the Mount, and I am indebted to Professor Willard, and Matt, who told us to read it. There may be better Sermon on the Mount stuff out there - my dad, who read it after my enthusiastic recommendation, thought it did not add anything new for him (though my dad has a Master's of Divinity). But no question it was my gateway to a deeper Biblical understanding.
9. Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller. Yes, I know. As a hip Christian, I should probably be over Blue Like Jazz, the same way hip people ought to get over anything that becomes too popular. But so much of evangelicalism seemed to exclude certain political philosophies, certain styles, certain areas of the country, certain lifestyles that Christianity never needed to exclude. In college and in my travels, I met all sorts of people who so needlessly rejected Christ's teaching for all of these reasons. Miller, in a kind, post-modern way, separated the Gospel from these unnecessary chains and looked lovingly at the excluded, saying, "I want Jesus to happen to you." A phrase worth repeating.
10. Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis. I could use a number of C.S. Lewis books for this last spot - the Narnia series, his apologetic works, the Space Trilogy, The Great Divorce. Till We Have Faces (along with Perelandra) was C.S. Lewis' favorite among his works, and for good reason. The best stories are the stories of a discipleship, and a reluctant, angry disciple making her case against God, what we so often do, finally surrendering into the arms of her Lord, is story I live and re-live so often. I love the scene where, in a solemn march to recover the body of her beloved sister, Lewis' heroine is seduced by the beauty of nature. She narrates, "You may believe I was sad enough; I had come on a sad errand. Now, flung at me like frolic or insolence, there came, as if it were a voice - no words - but if you had made it into words it would be, 'why should you not dance?'"

I am sure if I wrote the list again tomorrow, other books might be on it. The Father Brown Stories from G.K. Chesterton are a superb collection of Christian fiction (I really want to read The Man Who Was Thursday, but have not yet found it). Wendell Berry's essays challenge more than so many pundits. The Brother's Karamazov remains among my favorite books, and the brother's in question are three of the most compelling characters I have read. The Trial by Franz Kafka is such crazy paranoia that I could not stop reading (though I am not encouraged to re-read).

So, other non-professional, non-paid bloggers and internet surfers, what are your books? I hope my friends will make their own lists (perhaps Justin or Liz or Karin or Joshua).

Should They Have Stayed?

I mentioned in my last post my support of a Tennessee judge's decision to grant political asylum to a family of homeschooling Germans. I wonder, though, if I were a friend of the family's, what my counsel to them would be. And I wonder what decisions I will make about place and calling when the education of my own daughter (39 days old and counting as I write this) comes into play.

I was thinking about the homeschooling case and how I would write about it on the Metro when I flipped my Bible open to 1st Peter. We're reading 1st Peter in my small group and, being less familiar with the book, I wanted to read through it to get a "feel" for the epistle. I know I'm supposed to say this about the Bible, but I mean it, this book has some great stuff in it, and much of it is about living as a community of believers in the non-Christian (and in their case, often hostile) world.

The following passage in chapter 2 made me think of the homeschool situation:

¹¹Dear friends, I urge you, as aliens and strangers in the world, to abstain from sinful desires, which war against your soul. ¹²Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us.

¹³Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every authority instituted among men: whether to the king, as the supreme authority, ¹⁴or to governors, who are sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right. ¹⁵For it is God's will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of foolish men. ¹⁶Live as free men, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as servants of God. ¹⁷Show proper respect to everyone: Love the brotherhood of believers, fear God, honor the king.

There is a lot we can talk about here, and we live in different times and context when it comes to government. We happily do not live under a monarchy, for example. And, of course, proper respect does not mean we need to support government action when it is doing some wrong - peaceful civil disobedience is sometimes appropriate (i.E. I don't think Martin Luther King violated the spirit of this passage).

The German homeschoolers also engaged in civil disobedience. The state eventually had policemen escort their children to school and slapped the parents with a 70,000 Euro fine ($100,000 in today's exchange rate). The justification for their civil disobedience? "The curriculum was more and more against Christian values" and that the children faced bullying, violence and peer pressure.

All this makes me wonder if the family in question made the right choice. According to Peter, living and doing good within the bounds of civil society is a living testimony to the non-believer - salt and light Germany could use. No question the addition of children into the equation makes this more difficult. It is one thing to only martyr ourselves; kids are a different matter. But consider, our children will be exposed to worldly people and ideas at some point. Would it be such a bad thing that they learn these things at a point in their lives when they come home in the afternoon?

Again, homeschooling ought to be an option in a free society. Moreover, I am convinced by the academic excellence of my homeschooled friends that homeschooling is an effective method of education, often more effective than public schools. I know for a fact, however, that homeschooling is not a sure-fire way to keep your child from rejecting Christianity. I know, because I have seen it happen. Neither is public education, of course. But public education refined my Christianity in a way I would not have experienced had I been sheltered from it.

Do their complaints justify the civil disobedience? Is their family missing out on a good 1 Peter 2 situation?

Truth is, I don't know. I don't know the family, I don't know their school situation. I know that I love Europe, Germany in particular, and I am sad whenever the faithful leave, even for good reason. I know that there are parts of DC where I would not want my daughter to go to public schools - more for her safety and quality of education than for humanist ideas. Perhaps their complaints of violence are more beyond schoolyard tussles and bullying. I cannot say for sure.

But let's not be too quick to flee the world God so loves.

Where Do We Best Practice Evangelism?

A Facebook status went something like this:

"why is it so easy for me to talk about Jesus in America than in Germany?"

This was not the status of a frustrated former American colleague still fighting the good fight back in Freiburg. Rather, it was a German minister who my wife knew through an American Baptist church the old country. Another German, also in ministry, commented to suggest it was philology: some of the more "spiritual" words have negative connotations auf deutsch then they do in Yankee English. This may be true. But it is a German tradition to discuss in detail every possibility (even the most ridiculous - one of the few places we Americans are more efficient than our German friends is during a meeting. I was once in a meeting where no one was late - an important German value - but we spent a good twenty minutes discussing theoretical punishments for latecomers, dialecticly analyzing every contribution with no real conclusion. I'm sharing this because I find the example funny - not being a particularly efficient person, I did not mind, but I've already digressed...). Anyway, my hypothesis is that he found spiritual conversation easier in America for the very fact that he was foreign.

I say this, because I found it easier to talk about spiritual things in Germany. Yes, it is more of a taboo theme in continental Europe, but I found this to be freeing. Yes, part of my job meant, three to four days per week, sitting with German college students I had never met before to share the Gospel with them. I would try to bring a Gospel presentation into the first conversation. But the miry post-modernism forced any part of me that wanted to treat the Gospel like a sales-pitch to wither and be cut from the branch. (which suited me just fine)

My foreignness helped. The mere curiosity of why I was there (sometimes sprinkled with surprise that an American actually knew German) was an useful ice-breaker. I took advantage of the German willingness to at least consider all possibilities (my previous joking aside, I consider this an admirable trait), and it helped me even with those who had been trained by well-meaning humanists to believe my views were the basic cause of all human suffering.

In America, meanwhile, outside of a closer circle of friends, and especially with nonbelievers, I find it difficult to get past the superficial with anyone. I can do okay with what my father calls "news, sports and weather" conversations, but beyond that, it is simply difficult for me.

I agree, then, with one of my pastors, who himself moved to a foreign country to do ministry, that our biggest barrier to evangelism is the fear of alienation. Making your beliefs plain outside of sympathetic company will do this. Perhaps in Germany, I was a bit of an alien to begin with, and this fear was diffused. This is not, I should point out, a good excuse not to practice evangelism - Perfect Love ought to drive out all fears, and evangelism is both life giving and life saving.

This may not be true for everybody. And there could be other reasons why German evangelism came easier to me - such as my own personality or the fact that I was working for a missionary organization and it was my job to tell others about Jesus.

But often, I become nostalgic for those German nonbelievers, partial-believers, atheists, agnostics and others who spoke to me. It was not, of course, East Asia - there is much soil work to do before these seeds will grow. But our conversations moved from cafeterias to warm-glowing, smoky bars between satisfactory tastes of wheat beer, where the Gospel was proclaimed, discussed, analyzed and considered.