Scary thoughts

We listened to a wonderful sermon yesterday morning. Our pastor--actually, our former senior pastor--preached on or from (perhaps more accurately, "inspired by"--but in the sense of "provided some excuses to touch on various themes by reference to") 2 Timothy 4:9-18.

Basic outline:

• v. 10--"Demas has deserted me"--The Danger of Defection: We need to be willing to come back to the Lord if we have deserted Him.
   
• v. 11--"Luke is with me"--The Value of Christian Friendship: We need to be willing to be friends and enter into fellowship--true, deep, searching fellowship--with brothers and sisters in Christ.
   
• v. 11--"Mark is helpful to me"--The Necessity of Forgiveness (based on reference to how upset Paul had been at John Mark in the past that Paul actually split with Barnabas, his long-time ministry partner, over the man [see Acts 15:36-41]): We need to forgive.
   
• v. 14--"Alexander did me a great deal of harm"--Beware of Bitterness: --Kind of a follow-on to the former point about forgiveness.
   
• v. 17--"the Lord stood at my side"--The Constancy of Christ: Jesus is always faithful.

Two particularly memorable quotes or stories within the sermon:

From the Fourth Point (about Bitterness):

• "The Devil has no happy old men or women. He keeps feeding them poison. [The poison of bitterness.]"

And, from the First Point (about Defection and the need for Repentance):

• The story of Robert Robinson, author of "Come, Thou Fount of every blessing":
  

  Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
  Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
  Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
  Call for songs of loudest praise. . . .
  
  O to grace how great a debtor
  Daily I’m constrained to be!
  Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
  Bind my wandering heart to Thee. . . .

  Our pastor told a story about Robinson--about how, long after he wrote this hymn, he himself wandered far from God. And then one day, while riding in a coach, a woman across from him, reading in a book, asked Robinson to read a passage.
  
  It turned out the words she asked him to read were his very own . . . from that very hymn!
  

  Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
  Prone to leave the God I love;
  Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
  Seal it for Thy courts above.

  Cut to the quick, Robinson repented of his wandering and turned back to the Lord.

I was inspired by this latter story. Yes, Lord! I want and need to repent. I want and need to "come back" to You. I don't want to wander. (But, O! Lord! How I feel it!)

I determined to find out more about Robinson.

The first biography I happened to read, written in rather stilted, old-fashioned English, mentioned nothing of the incident, nor even hinted that such an incident could have occurred. Absolutely nothing about Robinson wandering at any point in his life after he gave his life to Jesus.

The second one referenced the incident, but rather differently than did our pastor:

Prone to wander Robert was. He left the Methodists and became a Baptist. Later on, having become a close friend of Joseph Priestly, he was accused of becoming a Unitarian. Priestly and other Unitarians denied the full divinity of Christ. However, in a sermon he preached after he supposedly became a Unitarian, Robinson clearly declared that Jesus was God, and added, "Christ in Himself is a person infinitely lovely as both God and man."

Robert died on . . . June 9, 1790. Had he left the God he loved? A widely-told, but unverifiable, story says that one day as he was riding in a stagecoach a lady asked him what he thought of the hymn she was humming. He responded, "Madam, I am the poor unhappy man who wrote that hymn many years ago, and I would give a thousand worlds, if I had them, to enjoy the feelings I had then."

Hmmmm.

So, nice story as it is, it may be nothing more than a Parson Weems'-style "George Washington cut down the cherry tree" kind of historically false, but morally encouraging tale.

Well, strange as all of that was, for some reason--I can't think why--yesterday afternoon, many hours before I got around to looking up Robinson's biography (this morning), I got thinking about stories in the Old Testament, and I began wondering: in essence, could many of the stories in the Old Testament be morally encouraging, but historically false tales?

I know, this isn't a new question. I've vaguely thought about it before. But it seems to be knocking with increasing insistence upon my brain.

What if? What are the ramifications? Can a morally encouraging story teach true Truth while itself not being, at root, a true story? Can stories of heroes--the legends of King Arthur, for example, or the stories of Sir Lancelot: Can they teach true Truth while themselves not being true--at least, not true beyond some very surface level?

Is it possible that our Jewish forebears in the faith, men (and, I expect, women) who interfaced with the real, true God: Is it possible that they conveyed true Truth about God and about how God operates in the world while telling morally compelling tales that aren't "really" true in detail?

There. I said it. I at least formulated the question and got it "out of my mouth" or "out of my fingertips."

I intend to return to this question--or the related group of questions, in subsequent posts.

Who should you trust? Who CAN you trust? Separatism and degrees of separation. Reforming Fundamentalism--Part III

I ran across an article two weeks ago on a fundamentalist website as I was looking for information about some of the people I count as spiritual ancestors. I have run across these kinds of articles in the past. I figure it is time I at least acknowledge their existence and say something about them.

As so many other such articles, The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree attempts to paint all efforts at Christian unity--working together for the advance of the Kingdom of God worldwide--as virtual blasphemy. No one who refuses to be quite as "holy" ("separate") as those who write these articles escapes the brush. Thus, as I have discovered,

Is truth knowable?

Anne Elliott graciously sought to call me out on some of the things I wrote on Wednesday. Not only did she write a brief comment on my post, but she wrote a full-blown post on her own blog.

I really appreciate her taking the time. It provided me a wonderful opportunity to better understand some of the things that have disturbed her (and many of her readers, I'm sure!), and it spurred me to dig deeper and seek to speak more clearly about issues I've been groping toward for too long.

Standing in the middle

I was writing yesterday morning about some of the struggles I've been having with my dad. (NOTE: Not that he has caused me trouble directly. Rather, I have been troubled by some of his behaviors. And so I have struggled, internally, to know how I ought to respond. . . .)

It bugs me (and others of my siblings) that he seems so . . . dishonest. One of my siblings called him a "chameleon." It's hard to know what he is really thinking because he seems to take on a different persona depending on who he is with. [That is most evident when it comes to religion. Depending on who he is with, he will come across as a devout Jew, or evangelical Christian, or secularist, or New Age follower. . . . But the same "go along to get along" attitude and behavior seems to permeate his life elsewhere as well.]

I had just written this and then it struck me: There are very positive aspects of this personality trait. Indeed, doesn't my whole desire to "stand in the middle" and "bring opposing viewpoints together" come from my dad? (I think so!)

And, in a way--in a way--doesn't St. Paul seem to speak positively of this trait when he says, "To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law . . . , so as to win those under the law. To those not having the law I became like one not having the law . . . , so as to win those not having the law. To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all men so that by all possible means I might save some" (1 Corinthians 9:20-22; NIV)? Again: I think so!

So the ability to shift personas, as it were, can have positive attributes. It can be used for good purposes. And I pray my use of this ability to "become as" may be for good purposes.

It is, I think, a unique ability or strength--a talent?--I have: always to be able to "go to the other side" in an argument to seek to understand the other viewpoint, indeed, to "take on" the other viewpoint to such a degree that people on "my" side think I am "enemy."

*****

Something else along the same lines.

Now, this morning, I just realized I never posted what I thought I had posted a month ago. Something about a man who I believe is a kind of "hero" to me, a "kindred spirit" or some such: Philipp Melanchthon.

Honestly, I don't really know all that much about Melanchthon, other than that, according to my understanding, he was always seeking to bring about peace between otherwise warring factions. And he was criticized for it. Some of the same kinds of criticisms (he was too diffident and lacking in decisive backbone) that my siblings and I have raised against our father. As the Wikipedia article about him notes:

[T]he Augsburg confession . . . was mainly the work of Melanchthon. . . . Luther did not conceal the fact that the irenical attitude of the confession was not what he had wished, but neither he nor Melanchthon was conscious of any difference in doctrine, and so the most important Protestant symbol is a monument of the harmony of the two Reformers on Gospel teachings. Some would say that at the diet Melanchthon did not show that dignified and firm attitude which faith in the truth and the justice of his cause could have inspired in him, perhaps because he had not sought the part of a political leader, as he may have lacked the necessary knowledge of human nature, as well as energy and decision. [Emphasis added--JAH]

Later, the article notes,

Melanchthon's importance for the Reformation lay essentially in the fact that he systematized Luther's ideas, defended them in public, and made them the basis of a religious education. . . . Melanchthon was impelled by Luther to work for the Reformation; his own inclinations would have kept him a student. Without Luther's influence Melanchthon would have been "a second Erasmus," although his heart was filled with a deep religious interest in the Reformation. While Luther scattered the sparks among the people, . . . Melanchthon's many sidedness and calmness, his temperance and love of peace, had a share in the success of the movement.

And then,

As a Reformer Melanchthon was characterized by moderation, conscientiousness, caution, and love of peace; but these qualities were sometimes said to only be lack of decision, consistence, and courage.

I would desire for myself to be a man of moderation and conscientiousness and known for my love of peace. I am not so sure I seek caution, however!

Still. There is something in what I have read about Melanchthon's character that resonates with me.

And then there is that other man of roughly the same period in history: Desiderius Erasmus.

I once told Sarita that I thought he was a kind of hero to me as well, a man whose character I believe I seek to emulate. (Not out of any conscious wish to be like him. I mean, simply, that I desire and naturally pursue the kind of character qualities and behaviors I sense Erasmus had.)

Sarita responded with horror at the thought.

But I have just read his summary biography at Wikipedia and I think I was not as wrong as she seems to believe. "[P]artisanship was foreign to his nature and his habits," says the article.

And yet, the article notes:

Erasmus was sympathetic with the main points in the Lutheran criticism of the Church. He had great respect for Martin Luther, and Luther . . .hoped for his cooperation in a work which seemed only the natural outcome of his own. . . . [But] Erasmus declined to commit himself, arguing that to do so would endanger his position as a leader in the movement for pure scholarship which he regarded as his purpose in life. Only as an independent scholar could he hope to influence the reform of religion. When Erasmus hesitated to support him, the straightforward Luther felt that Erasmus was avoiding the responsibility due either to cowardice or a lack of purpose. Erasmus, however, . . . believed that there was room within existing formulas for the kind of reform he valued most.

Ah, yes! Common themes! "Cowardice." "Lack of purpose." Or as one of the partisans of our day has said of me: too much "compromise"!

And then the traditional difficulty of the person in the middle: Erasmus was "too Catholic for the Protestants" and "too Protestant for the Catholics." Thus, as the Wikipedia article says of his Legacy:

The Catholic Counter-Reformation movement often condemned Erasmus as having "laid the egg that hatched the Reformation." Their critique of him was based principally on his not being strong enough in his criticism of Luther, not seeing the dangers of a vernacular Bible and dabbling in dangerous scriptural criticism that weakened the Church's arguments against Arianism and other doctrines. . . .

Reformation supporters see Erasmus's critiques of Luther and lifelong support for the universal Catholic Church as damning. His reception was particularly cold by the Reformed Protestant groups.

Just some meditations on a theme.

I realize I am nowhere near as irenic as perhaps I could be. When I am committed to an idea in the area of marketing, for example, I will wrestle it to the ground.

But in more philosophical or theological areas, for some reason, though I love to "work" in those areas, I am happier, I think, to "float" and not come down too strongly on one side or another.

How Modern Science Came to Eliminate the Idea of Purpose

This was originally posted 26 December 2003 on my personal blog. I reposted it here on Forbidden Questions on 22 July 2011.

I’ve been reading Jacques Barzun’s amazing From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Years of Western Cultural Life, 1500 to the Present (HarperCollins, 2000). Today I came across the following comments on the advent of modern science:

When we speak of 17C science and scientists we are committing an anachronism. At that time the word science had not been narrowed down to one kind of knowledge; it meant whatever was known. . . . Those who spent much of their time in investigating nature were called natural philosophers. . . .

The road to the present was hard and long because the old systems were good. They had consistency and completeness; only at a few points did contrary facts or gaps in explanation threaten their validity. One such fact was the odd behavior of the planets, especially Mars, which at times went backward instead of forward. Another ill-explained phenomenon was that of horizontal motion: what keeps an arrow flying so far and no farther? Does the push of the bowstring put something into the arrow? Or, as some thought, does the air get displaced around the head and keep propelling it? Lastly, why do these forces give out?

Barzun does a great job setting up the problem more thoroughly. But here’s what particularly caught my attention.

For centuries, movement was studied by thinking of the arrow in flight or the cart drawn by a horse—it was push or pull by an unknown force. But what about falling bodies? After Galileo and Newton, by abstraction, motion no longer raised images of movement; it was defined geometrically as change from place to place, its rule being that it will continue forever until something stops it:—an obstacle or the friction of the air. Similarly, an object at rest stays put until a force is applied to it. The two statements make up the law of inertia. It is a law not because objects “obey” it—that again is a skewed interpretation; the law is only a statement of regularity in behavior. . . .

The common-sense look of things is not to be trusted; it is too variable. The human aspect of the world and human use of objects must be ignored by the student of nature. In this purging of variety the importance of words is considerable: it helps to keep the geometrical idea in mind. Thus mass is better than weight, which suggests a burden pulling at one‘s arms. Force also seems to imply our own exertion, and energy does not—or not so much. The abstract word gravitation conceals “heavy” very nicely. Again, references to spirit or principle to account for what happens are too vague and suggest unseen “powers.” . . . To sum up, any “anthropomorphic”—manlike—view of things is wrong in principle and will mislead. Especially wrong is the belief that anything in nature fulfills a purpose. Aristotle’s physics relied on a doctrine of ends, of final purposes and meanings. The reverse assumption yields the truth of science, not movement toward goals but purposeless push or pull that need not end.

It goes without saying that the cultural consequences, the effect on human lives, of this shift in outlook have been profound. To begin with, as success in “natural philosophy” became evident in one realm after another, scientists, as we now call them, came to be regarded as “those who really know.” This in turn meant that reality was split—scientific fact and human experience, no longer one and often contradictory. If the one was real, the other must be illusion.

—Barzun, pp. 191-195

I had never thought of these things before: how our scientific philosophical assumptions affect our view of purpose (or purposelessness) . . . and how in my own life, it is true: I have been taught, mostly, to consider scientists as "those who really know": "Science is true knowledge; everything else is conjecture."

But is that true? Is it true, 1) that science is always true knowledge? And, 2) that everything else is "mere" conjecture?